IRONY
by Betz88
Summary: A strange young man is admitted to PPTH, and quickly becomes the center of attention for House and Wilson. Is this the brother? Lite HW, except for Chapter 21!
1. Chapter 1

"IRONY" 

2006

Betz88

Chapter 1 "Weird Wet Wednesday"

Wind and rain ruled the morning with an iron fist. Along the quiet suburban street, maple trees with leaves curled inside out like little girls pulling their dresses over their faces, flounced nervously on swaying branches. Overhead, a soggy, early morning sky, full of ragged storm clouds reached out with fingers of driving rain to claw the ground, sending scraps of paper, dead leaves and other debris skittering wildly across the dead grass and along the gutters. Mid-March in Princeton, New Jersey, gave no indication of anything even remotely attractive about this middle-class neighborhood. The world, from this part of town, looked bleak and undernourished. A severe winter had not yet let go of its strangle hold on an infant spring which struggled to raise its head from beneath dirty reminders of last month's snowfall. Cars parked along the curb looked cold and long abandoned, and did nothing to lift the blanket of gloom that spread like a pall as far as the eye could see. The street was devoid of life, as though all humanity had packed up its belongings and left the planet.

Beyond the end of the block where the rural road turned into the beginnings of East Side Drive, the headlights of a single automobile pierced the downpour. Slowly it approached through silver curtains of wind-swept rain, motor laboring and windshield wipers struggling to keep up with the onslaught. It slowed for the stop sign at the corner of East Side Drive and Cranston Avenue, tail lights twin coronas in the murky half-light, but did not come to a complete stop. The baby blue Toyota Avalon seemed to be struggling just to keep running, its engine heaving as it pulled into the intersection and continued down the street toward the center of town. In the driver's seat a man leaned over the steering wheel and swiped at the foggy inside windshield with a folded handkerchief, trying to keep ahead of the encroaching condensation. The car's defroster obviously was not working properly, and the driver's side window was down an inch or so even with the pelting rain. That fact seemed to be the least of its problems. It was a nice car, not very old, but even the most expensive automobile required preventative maintenance. This one had had none in a long time.

James Wilson, M. D., was not prone to swearing for no reason. He was a patient soul, and handsome, with the flawless skin of a boy and the demeanor of a priest in a confessional. His sable eyes were gentle as a white tail doe, and his generous mouth was more often than not upturned in the hint of a smile. This morning, however, he was tense and jittery behind the wheel of his three-year-old Avalon. The car was circling the drain mechanically, and he would be lucky if he made it all the way to pick up his friend and colleague and coax the car the rest of the way to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital where they both worked.

"Damn!"

Wilson played hop scotch with both feet, manipulating the gas pedal and brake, trying to will the car to keep running long enough to get him a few more blocks on East Side Drive, a little closer to Gregory House's first-floor condominium. He did not blame anyone else but himself for the car's poor condition. The Avalon had been his wife's car; Julie's car, and Julie could not have cared less about its upkeep. All she knew about cars was that when she turned the key in the ignition, the car started and ran until she turned it off again. And now Julie was gone; sick and tired of her husband's long work hours and his inattention to her constant demands. She was also jealous of the attention James showered upon his disabled best friend, and therefore withheld from her.

On an evening two weeks before, Wilson had returned from work to find the house dark and empty, and all Julie's belongings removed from it. A note on the dining room table announced that he would receive their divorce papers in the mail in a very short time. And now James, suddenly thrust once more into bachelorhood, was on his way to pick up House and drive both of them to work; that was if the car made it that far.

The Avalon finally gave up the ghost halfway down the block _before_ the block where House's condo was located. The engine gave one last gasp, dieseled down and simply quit. Wilson quickly threw the gearshift into neutral and turned the key again as the wipers stopped working. The starter struggled to engage, but the battery quickly drained beneath the load of lights, wipers, defroster, radio and neglect. He steered obliquely toward the curb, fighting the wheel which had gone stiff and then locked when the power shut down. He let the car drift and it barely made it past the intersection with Piedmont before limping to a stop about seven feet further down the street, front tires against the curb, not quite out of the yellow zone. Exasperated, he rested both hands atop the steering wheel and leaned his forehead on them. It was not as though he hadn't seen this coming. He had not taken the time to have the car serviced, and Murphy's Law stated that even a piece of machinery would find a way, like his wife, to get even if it could. With a sigh, he threw the shifter into "park", shut off the headlights and hit the window button. There was not even enough juice left in the battery to close the window.

"Shit!"

The windshield fogged up quickly, and soon he could only see out the narrow slit between the top of the window and the roof. Rain beat a mocking tattoo on the metal over his head, and he sighed deeply. He did not even have a raincoat with him, or an umbrella. He was a doctor, not a meteorologist! When Murphy's Law got even, it really got even! He grabbed the keys from the ignition and glared out the slit at the solid wall of rain.

Jim Wilson opened the driver's door into the heavy onslaught of a vengeful Mother Nature. House's place was located another block and a half in the direction the car was already headed. Hopefully, the Princeton cops would not bother checking "no parking zones" too closely today, and he could get by without a ticket until he could have the car towed. Ducking his head, he crossed the puddle-filled street, broke into a lope in a useless measure to try to avoid as much of a soaking as possible. It was a study in wasted effort. He might as well have been standing beneath a waterfall. He made it to House's place and hammered desperately on the front door.

Gregg must have been waiting for him. The door opened suddenly and James burst into the entry like a wave breaking on a beach. He was aware of his friend's startled reaction at being pummeled backward by his own front door, and of House's clumsy back-pedaling, hopping painfully on his sound leg to scramble out of the way. Then House was propped at an awkward angle against the wall of his own entryway, blue eyes wide, long face filled with surprise and a quick flash of pain. He recovered quickly and wrinkled his nose at Wilson, who had pulled a tidal wave through the front door behind him.

"You're dripping all over my floor," Gregory House observed quietly and unnecessarily. "Where's your umbrella?"

Wilson turned, wiping water from his eyes, his face, and the expensive tailored suit. "Don't start! The car died about a block back that way …" He shivered with the icy cold which had penetrated to his skin, and pointed a dripping finger toward the north.

"I didn't!" House whined defensively. "Looks like your car didn't either. The last time I rode in it, it sounded like an old plow horse with the heaves! When was the last time you took it for an oil change? A tune-up?" There was no sympathy in the mocking voice, but Wilson had not expected there to be.

"Been awhile," he admitted.

"Humph!" House pushed himself away from the wall, turned with some effort and started out in the direction of his living room. "Get in here and get dried off before you catch pneumonia. I don't want you anywhere around me with a snotty nose!" His right hand was empty of his cane, and his limp was ponderous.

Wilson was still shaking water onto the floor of the entry hall. He shed his jacket and held it away from his body on one finger. His dress shirt and tee-shirt were plastered to his slender shoulders. He eyed his friend with an expression that was a combination of amusement and exasperation. "You don't mind being around _me_ when _you_ have a snotty nose! And where is your cane?"

"It's in there. I wasn't expecting you to break the damned door down … and it's not nice to spread your germs to a cripple and make him sick too." The remark wasn't angry, only long-suffering, which, when you thought about it, was almost as bad.

Wilson followed him. "How about calling Cuddy and telling her what happened. I've got to get a towel and dry off. It's cold out there!" Wilson was already dripping water down the hallway toward the bathroom. "We'll have to take your car, House. Are you up for driving? I can drive if you'd rather not …"

House's voice rumbled after him. "Yeah … okay …" Anything else he might have said dangled unspoken in the sudden emptiness of the room.

Wilson entered the bathroom, closed the door and began peeling off the rest of his wet clothing.

When he returned to the living room, House was slouched in his big club chair, legs crossed on the ottoman, the telephone receiver pressed to his ear. Wilson, standing over him in wet tee-shirt and damp dress slacks, leaned down and frowned questioningly into his face. House scowled and waved him away impatiently. Grinning, Wilson turned around and headed for the couch, flopping down with a sigh, still watching as House waggled his eyebrows and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. He was obviously on "hold".

"What's the holdup?" Wilson wondered aloud.

House's scowl deepened. "They're _finding_ her!" He grumbled. His rubber-mask face was in the process of pulling expressions of impatience, one after another, his mouth clownishly pantomiming "blah-blah-blah …" as he waited for their boss to get to the phone. "She probably got drowned in the same tsunami as you … same archipelago, different island!" He looked at Wilson's soggy clothing appraisingly and cocked his head. "Why don't you go in and dig around in my closet. There's probably stuff in there that would fit you. Pants might be too long, but the rest should work okay. I wasn't kidding when I said I didn't want you catching something 'catching'!" He returned his attention suddenly to the telephone again, and Wilson paused to listen in the middle of getting up from the couch.

House was speaking to Cuddy at last. Wilson could tell by his "fake sincerity" tone of voice. As he listened, his eyes widened dramatically. House was weaving a sob story that might have won the Pulitzer Prize if only he'd written it down.

"Dr. Cuddy?" (Pause) "It's House." (Longer Pause) "Oh really?" (Extended Pause) "I thought that might've been the problem when you didn't come to the phone right away. The same thing happened to Dr. Wilson when he was on his way here to give me a lift to work." (Short Pause) "Yes, I know." (Normal Pause, eyes rolling) "His car let him sit a couple blocks away and he was soaking wet by the time he made it to my place." (Mini-Pause) "The thing is, he slipped on the sidewalk and twisted his back." (Dramatic Pause) "I don't think it's serious, but I have him in my spare bedroom with an ice pack, and I don't think I should leave him alone right now." (Concerned Pause) "What do you mean, kidding? Of course I'm not kidding!" (Pregnant pause with appropriate indignation. How did he _do_ that?)

Wilson blanched at the other man's unrepentant lie, and his jaw dropped. He waved impotently with both hands, making crazy circles in the air in House's direction in a vain attempt to divert him from any further tall stories. House only smiled in an evil manner, turned his head in the opposite direction and kept right on talking. Wilson sighed again and flopped back down on the couch, hunched his body forward and spread both hands, scrubbing at his face in disbelief.

House was winding down, ready to deliver the fatal blow. "Yes, I will. I'll watch him very closely. If he feels better this afternoon, I'll drive him over for an evaluation. Right now I have to find some Tylenol and call the garage to have his car towed. Thanks, Dr. Cuddy. I'll be in touch. You'd better change out of your wet clothes too, before you end up with pneumonia. Wow! Wish I was there to watch!" He leered into the phone and hung up quickly, scrunching his nose and waggling shaggy eyebrows in Wilson's direction.

Wilson took his hands down and stared blank-faced at his friend. "You just screwed me right into the ground, House. You know that?"

House dropped the phone on the table beside him, wincing a bit. He finally had the grace to look away again before his expression began to change into something Wilson did not quite understand for a few moments. "Sorry, but I needed a good cover story for the rest of the day, and you just happened to be handy …" The telephone conversation which had kept him distanced for a time, was over now. He hunched forward in the chair and groaned softly.

Wilson scowled. _Huh?_

"Gregg?"

House cringed. Wilson rarely called him by his given name. He was busted. "Sorry. Something happened …" he admitted reluctantly.

"What? _What_ happened?" Wilson was on his feet, already moving across the room. Gregg's face was beaded with sweat that Wilson hadn't noticed before; eyes glittering, expression pinched. Both hands were moving toward his thigh, pressing in on either side of his knee, just below the missing quadriceps muscle. Wilson knelt down by the side of the chair. "What have you done?"

"I got exactly what I deserved for messing around without the damn cane!" A hiss of pain escaped from between his teeth. "Something twisted … in the hallway … starting to hurt."

Wilson's voice lowered nearly to a whisper: "Did I hurt you when I came busting in awhile ago?" He reached out to House's upper arm without waiting for permission.

The warm touch of Wilson's hand drew House's gaze upward to meet the dark frown of worry. "You didn't do anything." He said bluntly. "You can't take the credit every time I fuck up …" His grin was fierce, lopsided and forced.

Wilson moved his palm down House's forearm, reaching tentatively to the spot where his friend's hand cradled the side of the leg gingerly. "Did you pull something? Bang it? What? Let me see!"

House closed his eyes, pursed his lips and drew his hand away from any point of physical contact. "Weren't you going to go get dressed?" He growled.

"Yeah," Wilson said, gently massaging the cramped muscles beneath his palm. "In a minute."

House turned his head away and to the left as far as he could within the limits of comfort while Wilson watched with a frown. Gregg was purposely avoiding his touch, and he could not determine of it was embarrassment, anger or fear, or a combination of all three. He knew this man was leery of being touched, but he did not usually pull away from his best friend. His voice came out low; strained. "Please … don't."

Wilson rolled slowly backward until his ass was flat on the hardwood floor. He withdrew his hand from Gregg's personal space and raked long fingers grimly through his hair. "Why won't you let me help you?"

"I don't need help. I'm … fine."

He was always on the defensive. Wilson was aware that something within the context of that strained plea was missing a beat; something else that House wanted to say, but couldn't bring himself to do so. Silence stretched awkwardly across the intervening chasm. This was something that inevitably happened between the two of them whenever they approached personal contact of any kind, be it conversational or physical. There was always a rigid, invisible barrier that sprang into place like a red flag in a NASCAR race.

_STOP! _

Wilson waited out the silent interval calmly. He drew his long legs up against his body and wrapped both arms about his knees, leaning his chin on top. Patiently he watched House's body language as the other man's rigid control began to slip again and he shuddered, releasing some of the tension and again turning his head to risk a glance at the quiet friend who sat unmoving by his side.

Finally: "Sorry."

"It's okay. Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah. It's better now."

"Want to go in and lie down awhile?"

"Yeah. Just for awhile. Cane's on the piano … could you … ?"

Wilson was already on his feet. "Sure." He grabbed the handle and handed it across. "Here."

House took it, made to rise. Usually he had no trouble getting out of his chair. He would push up with both arms until he could balance on the healthy leg and transfer his weight back across to the cane. This time he was shaky. He made it up part way, and then fell back with another hiss between his teeth. The vein in the middle of his forehead stood out sharply, throbbing; his face darkened, and he muttered a curse under his breath. Then Wilson's hands were below his shoulders, lifting, and he was up. "Thanks." He limped wordlessly down the hallway toward his bedroom. Wilson, of course, followed.

When Gregg sat down wearily on the edge of his big bed, laid the cane across the quilt and removed his work jacket, Wilson stepped across to remove both articles and place them nearby. Without a word, he eased House onto his back and lifted his legs carefully onto the surface of the bed. He untied the flashy sneakers and removed them gently, then reached for the second bed pillow to place beneath House's painful leg. While all this went on, Wilson could feel the piercing blue eyes following every move he made.

At last, House spoke in a strained voice. "Why the fuck do you put up with me?"

Wilson paused, uncertain what was expected of him. He decided to try the truth. "Because I love you, that's why."

"Say _what_?" The scowl was palpable.

"You heard me. I don't stutter."

"I just didn't believe my ears."

"Well, believe them! I didn't say I was _in _lovewith you. I said I love you. There's a difference. Anyway, I'm thinking it's a dose of poetic justice that you told Cuddy I'm the one who hurt my back … and it was really you who did a number on your leg. I'm surprised your nose still fits inside the room."

"Fuck you, Wilson! As soon as you hand me a Vicodin out of the bottle on the dresser, you can leave me alone to try to rest awhile."

The bottle was already in Wilson's grasp. He handed a pill to Gregg who swallowed it dry. "Now shut up and go to sleep. I'm going to dig some dry clothes out of this mess of a bedroom and then go call Vince Crane to send somebody to pick up the Toyota. You need anything from downtown?"

"Nah, only groceries, but I can phone an order to Kauffman's later and one of their boys will drop it by. No sweat." House watched Wilson rummage in the closet and dig in dresser drawers, finally extracting enough apparel to change his clothing from the skin out. "Go stand under a hot shower if you want to. Just don't start sneezing on me later, or I'll have to beat the shit out of you." He shifted himself on the bed, searching for a more comfortable position, and Wilson realized his leg was _not_ okay. He hoped the Vicodin would kick in quickly to bring relief and help relax the rigid muscles.

"Thanks, House." Wilson turned to leave and flipped off the bedroom light, throwing the room into shadow. "It looks like the rain is tapering off a little. It'll probably freeze tonight and make the streets miserable as hell in the morning. I'll call Cuddy later and tell her my _back_ is better and I'll be in tomorrow. What about you?"

"Yeah, my leg will be all well by then too, and I'll ride along in with you. We can lean on each other and feed the hell out of the rumor mill. I won't even have to use the cane! Now go away, willya?"

Wilson grinned through the gloom. "Want me to shut the door?"

"Nah. Don't bother."

"Okay." Wilson started to leave again, but House spoke his name softly. He paused and half turned.

The quiet voice barely penetrated the darkness. "Me too, you know …"

Wilson walked away without looking back, and a shiver of something he chose not to recognize squiggled its way down his spine.

xxxxxxxx

10


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 "Gregg's Place"

Hot shower water filled the entire bathroom with healing steam that went straight to his bones and chased away the penetrating cold of his earlier drenching. James Wilson leaned his arms against the smooth tile walls beside the chrome grab-rails that Gregg needed in order to maintain balance in the enclosure.

Jim's thoughts were confused and in turmoil. What, exactly, had House meant by that last parting comment?

As the hot water soaked Wilson's auburn hair and ran in rivulets across his face, he surveyed the plethora of handicap accouterments that House had added reluctantly to keep himself from going flat on his face in the shower. Grab bars on all three walls were at a height to accommodate a tall man, and their rough texture assured that soap-slippery hands would not lose their grip. Above his head, a sling chair hung from the ceiling on heavy bolts, now pulled flat against a corner with a strong chain. If ever House was in enough pain that he became weakened by it and could not stand for any length of time, the chair would accommodate his weight and allow him to soak in the hot water anyway.

Wilson's thoughts were chaotic as he stood beneath the strong stream from the large shower head. Did House's words of a few minutes before confirm that his confession of brotherly love was being reciprocated? Or had it been something else entirely? James could not guess.

The floor of the shower was like standing on medium-grain sandpaper. Even if liquid soap got spilled on it, there was no way Gregg's feet would slip and throw him, with perhaps disastrous results, on his ass.

Wilson's eyes lost their focus as House's soft "me too" reverberated in his head. What had Gregg been trying to say? House was not one for platitudes, and Wilson knew with certainty that if pressed for answers, House would surely clam up. The moment had come and gone and was now over. He had to accept that.

The shower curtain was heavy with a rough texture that fastened loosely at the bottom as well as the top. Gregg did not have to fumble to push aside a shower door. One flick of his hand would propel the curtain aside. The floor drain was wide and covered with an iron grate. There was never an accumulation of water on the floor because the lip for stepping in and out was very low, and the floor outside the shower stall was at least as rough as the one inside.

Wilson closed his unfocused eyes and let the moment of Gregg's unguarded words surround him with warmth, real or imagined. Something long unspoken between them for as long as they had known one another was finally beginning to push toward the surface. He could feel it, but he did not dare speak further of it. He would let it go, acknowledging that once a sliver of thought began to wiggle around inside that formidable brain, Gregg could not help himself, but would continue to worry it and worry it until it finally burst forth full-blown. All Wilson had to do was wait.

He stood in the therapeutic steam and let his body luxuriate for a long time. When the water temperature finally began to cool, he pushed the shutoff valves closed and flipped the curtain back. He felt like a limp rag, and it was so good. He had a momentary feeling of rebirth. He sat on the rough-textured toilet lid and toweled himself leisurely before turning on the exhaust fan to rid the room of steam. He'd already shaved when he got up that morning, so he didn't do it again. Nor did he brush his teeth. Same reason.

Wilson dressed himself in Gregg's clothing, and was surprised to see that everything fit well enough to be convincing. The puke-green tee-shirt had what looked like a line drawing of a toothpaste tube on the front of it, and he had no idea if it was supposed to represent anything or not. The underwear and socks fit fine, but he had to take a deep breath and draw in his already flat belly to get the button buttoned. Gregory House was _so-o-o_ slim! And he had to roll up the bottom hems twice so the jeans wouldn't drag on the floor. There! The shoes were another story. He had to slip his still-soggy French loafers back on. Bending over, his back bit at him with a quick twinge.

_Ouch! What the … ? _Then it eased.

Gregg's shoes were the size of canal barges and he would probably look like a three-year-old in his father's shoes if he tried to wear them. Somewhere in his mind he wondered about the old adage that suggested the size of a man's feet determined the size of his ….

_No! Don't go there!_

Smiling faintly to himself, Wilson picked up his damp clothing and damp towel and dumped them in the tall black hamper in the corner. Other than the few patches of condensation on the mirror above the sink, the bathroom looked pretty much the way he had found it. His hair was still wet and shaggy. He'd comb it later. Maybe. He placed his soiled dress pants over an arm, belt still in the loops, wallet, keys and change still in the pockets, and turned off the light. He walked back down the hallway, into the living room to the couch and put the pants in a heap on the backrest where his suit jacket and tie already lay. Wilson sank down into its comfortable leather depths. There were a couple of phone calls he had to make. Right now, he felt a little loopy, a little giddy. There was a silly smile plastered across his face.

It felt funny. Good.

The first call was easy. He found that he was learning to create artistic falsehoods in a manner that almost rivaled his friend's. Cuddy answered on the first ring, and James found himself affecting a voice almost as pained as House's had been a few hours before.

"Dr. Cuddy? This is Wilson."

"Dr. Wilson? How are you? House told me you hurt your back."

Wilson sighed, getting into it now. "I did. But I slept awhile and it's eased up some. Still hurts when I turn to the right though. I took a long shower, and that helped. I'm going back and lie down again, but I wanted to call you first and tell you that we'll both be in tomorrow morning, probably by about nine."

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line, then Cuddy's voice resumed. "I'm glad you're all right. At first I thought House was feeding me a line … you know how he is … but now that you've called, I guess he was telling me the truth. I'm very relieved to know you haven't hurt yourself seriously. Are you still at House's place? Where is he?"

Wilson sighed again. He had to perpetuate the lie a little further. "Yeah, I'm still here. I need to call the garage and have them pick up my car. It just died on me on my way in this morning. Sorry about causing House to miss work also, but he's not fit to drive in this weather, and I wouldn't let him leave. He sat up with me for a couple hours, making sure I was okay. Then his leg began giving him trouble and I 'suggested' he go to his room and lie down. That's where he is right now."

"Is House all right?" Wilson recognized an edge of worry in Lisa Cuddy's voice. Although the two of them were constantly on each others' nerves, he knew they held a deep and abiding respect for one another.

"Yeah, he'll be fine. He usually experiences some trouble with his leg when the weather gets like this. It happens every year. When the weather warms up, he'll be a little less lame." Wilson needed to end the conversation before he got himself in too deep. "Listen, Dr. Cuddy, I've got to go now. I'm starting to stiffen up and I need to stretch out again … plus call the garage. We'll both see you tomorrow, all right?"

"Of course. I hope you're both feeling better … and I'll see you then, Dr. Wilson. Good bye."

"'Bye …" Wilson hung up, his conscience tugging in an annoying fashion.

_Ye Gods!_

Now he had to remember to walk a little stiffly when he went to work in the morning. His stomach hurt a little, a twinge at his belt line and extending back to a point just below his rib cage. He needed to have his head examined for not keeping an umbrella in the car. What next? He got up from the couch and grabbed his wet suit pants. His back muscles knotted and he grunted.

"_Ouch, damn it!" _Hissed between his teeth. He coughed a few times. It hurt.

Wilson removed the belt from his slacks and threaded it through House's jeans. He removed his car keys and the change from the front pockets and then fished out his wallet, which hadn't suffered much from the rain, but still felt a little damp. He pulled a slip of paper from the bill compartment and checked a phone number written there. He picked up the phone again, punched up a number and listened to it ring. He sank slowly back down onto the couch, concentrating as the phone rang once … twice …

"Crane's Chrysler … this is Vince." A familiar voice grumbled into the receiver.

"Vince Crane, you old dog," Wilson began. "Surprised you even came to work on a day like this …"

There was a momentary pause, the man on the other end of the line wracking his brain trying to identify the caller. He tried a tactic which might offer more clues while Wilson enjoyed his upper hand. "Well, I'll tellya, Buddy, it's days like this that drop the dimes in the coffers, if ya know what I mean."

"I do indeed." James was grinning into the phone. "And … 'old Buddy' … I've got a few dimes to drop into _your_ coffer if you want to come out to Gregg House's neighborhood and pick up a certain baby blue Toyota Avalon which took a crap on me on my way to work this morning. You got a Roll-Back available?"

There was sudden laughter ringing in his ear as Vincent Crane picked up on all the clues at once. "Jimmy Wilson! Oh my God, Jimmy! How are you? It's been way on the south side of too damn long! How's Gregg?"

"I'm great, Vince. And he's about as good as he'll ever be. Your name came up in conversation not long ago, and we even talked about dropping in on you sometime. But then we were hip deep in sick people, and the right time slipped by again."

"Know what ya mean, Jimmy. Real life kinda sticks its nose in while you're trying to have fun. So. What can I do for ya? You say the Avalon left ya sit?"

"It sure did. Corner of East Side Drive and Piedmont. It sits on the yellow line on the west side. I'm going to get a ticket if it's not out of there soon. And Vince … could you pick me up at Gregg's place on the way through? I've been thinking about trading the Avalon anyway. I kind of like the new Pacificas."

"Well hell, you're in luck. There's one in the show room and four on the lot right now. You can take yer pick. Give ya a good price. I'll give Ricky a shout to fire up the roll-back, and he'll be out there to get your car in … say an hour, give or take. Gregg still live at the Gateway?"

"Yeah, he does."

"Good. Rick will stop out front and lay on the horn. You can ride on in with him. I got enough liability insurance to cover ya if ya get hit by a tractor trailer or somethin' …"

Wilson laughed. "Well thanks!" He said sarcastically.

The Roll-Back truck with the Avalon chained in place on the deck beeped its horn out front an hour and ten minutes later.

Wilson had checked on House right after hanging up the phone. Gregg was sleeping fitfully, and Wilson could see the restless muscle tics in his thigh. Wilson closed his eyes in empathy and had to look away. He cringed every time he witnessed this phenomenon. Although he knew there was nothing to be done to stop the involuntary movements which Gregg often said felt like worms beneath his skin, James' heart went out to his friend and the condition he had to live with for the remainder of his life. Wilson's hands went to the foot of the bed and unfolded a light blanket, drew it gently over House's long, skinny body. He pulled the edge over his waist where the slender hands lay across his abdomen, and up over his shoulders to a point just below the stubbled jaw.

Wilson straightened, still gazing down at the man who had been his best friend for nearly twelve years. Gregg was a former athlete: runner, gymnast, ball player of considerable talent, a former many things. Now he was a mere shadow of what had once dwelt within that still powerful-looking frame. House's entire life had narrowed down to the practice of medicine. That was all that defined him these days. He was known as the Genius Diagnostician. The Brilliant Jerk. The Total Ass. His own definition of himself, however, was more than harsh: he called himself The Cripple.

Wilson reached down and touched House's cheek with a feather caress. "Sleep well, my friend," he whispered tenderly. "I'll see you later." He turned and left silently.

Behind him in the darkened room, the blue eyes cracked open a mere slit as Gregory House watched the other man walk softly away. Momentarily, a telltale path of wetness tracked its way down the sides of his face to soak into the pillow. House reached from beneath the blanket to the night table close to his bed, found the bottle with his fingers and extracted another Vicodin.

In the living room, James Wilson sat in dim silence, waiting for the roll-back to stop out front. He coughed deeply, clasped his arms tightly about his chest.

He signed on the bottom line for the Navy blue Pacifica at the stroke of noon. He'd seen the car when he walked in the door.

At the time he'd entered Crane Chrysler headquarters, Vince had burst from his office across the expanse of the crowded showroom floor and met him with open arms. They hugged briefly and then stood back to look at each other.

"Jumpin' Jesus!" The short redhead exclaimed with a raised eyebrow at Wilson's borrowed outfit. You look like you an' Gregg are into the 'Olsen Twins' thing big time! You better watch it, pal, or people will start to talk …"

Wilson rolled his eyes and grimaced. "Knock it off, Vince! I got drowned this morning when the damned Toyota took a crap. I had to run two blocks in a freaking monsoon to get to Gregg's place, and by that time I was soaked to the skin. I didn't dare let him drive the way his leg's been this winter … so I ended up in his bedroom, in his shower, in his drawers and in his pants … in that order!" He waited, watching Crane's face while all that sank in.

Vince wrinkled his nose after a moment's hesitation. _"Ewww!" _ Then they both laughed.

Vince Crane hadn't changed much from their younger days when he and Wilson and House and Billy Travis used to fool around with old cars, watch Penn State Football and eat Francie O'Neill's pasta. Vince still looked a lot like Mickey Rooney in his prime, except with bright red hair. He still smoked Rigoletto Cigars and walked like a compact combination of Michael J. Fox and Jackie Chan: bowlegged and tight-assed.

They spent an hour sitting in Vince's cluttered office talking about the old days, about Billy's recent promotion to Night Nursing Supervisor at the hospital, and the sad condition of Gregory House's damaged leg. After that, there wasn't much more to add. Wilson knew about Vince's phobia of being around Gregg and his chronic pain. His revulsion, born of horror and pity, made things awkward. It had been the main reason the friends had begun drifting apart. Vince regretted it, but he could not help himself. He cared very much for Gregg House, but the sorrow he felt for the man's altered physical condition turned him into a quaking coward whenever he had to be near him for more than a very short length of time. Wilson had been angry with it for almost a year after Gregg's infarction, but now he understood, and knew Vince was that way with everyone he knew who had a disability. Even Gregg had come to understand Vince's hang-up as something akin to his own lingering bouts of anger and bitterness.

Wilson's eyes had grounded on the dark blue Pacifica right away. It was as "loaded" as a new car could possibly be. It was all-wheel drive, had a fancy Mopar Navigation System and automatic transmission. The deep leather seats were heated and reclined fully and would nicely accommodate House's requirements with his leg when he needed to ride in it. Wilson sat behind the wheel and adjusted the seats and other accouterments at the touch of a button. He was "sold" without a sales pitch which, coming from the mouth of Vince Crane to his ears, he would only have laughed at anyway.

"Write me up," he said when he climbed out. He took the keys for the ailing Toyota from his pocket and handed them over, exchanging them for the ones to the Pacifica. "I'll take whatever you decide to offer on the Avalon," he said nastily. "If I'd have maintained it better, it wouldn't have let me sit. But it was Julie's car and I really need to get rid of it."

"Like you really needed to get rid of her, huh?" Vince suggested softly.

"Yeah," Wilson admitted. "Something like that."

Then they were back in the office doing the reams of paperwork, signing his name dozens of times, swearing that he was an American citizen, had a good job, a good credit rating; had a Sterling reputation, a Protestant mother-in-law, a Jewish uncle and a Cocker Spaniel with a litter of nine pups. He had no serious diseases, no outstanding arrest warrants, no unpaid speeding tickets, no children now, and no children in the foreseeable future. You- Are-Now-Cleared-For-Takeoff- Sign-Here! He wrote out a check for the full amount and handed it over. No fanfare. Just "cash-on-the-barrelhead!"

Vince handed back a pile of legal papers that would have choked a mule, along with Wilson's vanity license plate which read: "ONK DOK", a silly gift from House when he'd been promoted to department head. Vince grabbed a handy screw driver and quickly attached it. He then clamped down on his cigar and grinned. Wilson looked slightly overwhelmed, but the car was his. He shook hands with Vince Crane, transferred his brief case, golf clubs, jumper cables and tool box to the Pacifica's rear deck and drove his sweet new car out of the showroom through the back door. He beeped a farewell, waved his hand out the window and pulled onto the street, knowing the second the tires hit the pavement, the thing would depreciate at least $3,000!

It was 1:30 in the afternoon and he needed to get back to check on House. He turned right, speeding away from the center of town and headed toward East Side Drive. The rain had quit, but the wind hadn't, and the car was lightly buffeted as he drove along. Its response was smooth and quick. He put the window up, fiddled with the seat controls, the tilt steering wheel and the heater until they were just right. The heated seat felt good on his ass, but it made him feel as though he had to pee, so he flicked the control to the "off" position, and the sensation went away somewhat. It would take some getting used to. The Mopar Navigation screen glowed, already calibrated, on the dashboard right in front of the steering wheel, and it showed that he was headed precisely in the direction he wanted to go. He smiled lightly at the sophisticated toys that manufacturers were incorporating into new cars these days. He chose one of his _Bonnie Raitt_ CDs from the pile of papers and junk on the passenger seat and slipped it into the stereo. Music surrounded Wilson like a cocoon as he drove along, and he could not resist keeping time with his fingers on the steering wheel.

Wilson pulled into the space beside Gregg's "HANDICAP" stall in Gateway's underground garage fifteen minutes later. The big burgundy Envoy beside him didn't make this car look as small as it had with the Avalon. The Pacifica was no slouch, and it would give the Envoy a run for its money. Wilson smiled to himself as he got out and walked around his new toy. Not bad, if he had to say so himself. It was a class act!

Wilson rode to ground level in the elevator and let himself back into Gregg's apartment. It was quiet and dark. House must still be in his bed resting. He tiptoed down the hallway and stuck his head into the bedroom. Gregg was there, in the bed, blanket pooled about his waist, propped up at the head end with the television on, watching something on the National Geographic Channel. He must have showered, because there was a wet towel on the floor, along with the clothing he'd been wearing that morning, but he was now barefoot, attired in a gray sweat suit and looked fairly comfortable. His leg, however, was again propped on the bed pillow. He did not speak as Wilson walked over to the bed and perched on the edge.

"Are you getting hungry yet?"

House pulled his attention from the TV and looked up. "Yeah, a little, but I was waiting for you. The kid brought the groceries awhile ago and I put 'em away, but I don't feel like cooking. Figured you wouldn't either. Not with a 'bad back' … Thought we could order a pizza."

Wilson rolled his eyes, but didn't comment on the "bad-back" crap that House was unwilling to let go of. "Sounds good. Vince Crane has the Toyota. He's keeping it."

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Then House turned to him with wrinkled nose. "Keeping it? Why? Is it shot, or what?"

"No. It'll make a nice car for someone. I bought another one."

"You what?"

"Bought another car. Chrysler Pacifica. It's downstairs."

"What's a Chrysler Pacifica? Sounds like the name of a cruise ship."

"Fancy station wagon. You'll get to ride in it when we go to work tomorrow."

"Oh. Okay. Like I said: a ship. You sure you can go to work tomorrow? … your 'hurt back' and all …"

Wilson narrowed his eyes and glared. "Will you stop that already?" But he knew House had gotten the reaction he'd been looking for.

The conversation died at that moment as though it had never happened. House pointed to the TV screen and laughed. "Look, Wilson! Meerkats! Aren't they great? That one looks like Cuddy. And that big dark one over there looks a lot like Foreman."

Wilson frowned again for a moment, but finally he could not hide the smile that crept across his features. "You're incorrigible!" He went around the bed and climbed on top of the covers. He scooted across as close as he could get to the other man and stretched out leisurely near his friend's left side, drawing a corner of the blanket across his legs.

House looked down at him with an expression of disdain for a moment, then reached over and combed his fingers through Wilson's wind-blown hair. "Comfortable?"

"Yeah," Wilson said.

"Well, tough!" House grumbled sarcastically. "It's your turn to call for the pizza!"

Wilson sighed, threw off the blanket and rolled out of bed. "It's _always_ my turn!" He muttered. He coughed again, muffled it with both hands over his mouth. _Damn!_

xxxxxxxx

Wilson called Dominoes from the living room phone. The kid at the other end told him the pizza and bread sticks would be there in about three quarters of an hour. Wilson hung up and returned to the bedroom. House had turned off the TV and now sat on the edge of the bed, cane in hand, staring down at the floor where his shoes still lay haphazardly where Wilson had dropped them earlier.

Wilson realized instantly that House's leg was too sore to allow him to lean down far enough to pick them up. "Hurt?" He asked simply.

"Like a bitch," House replied, for once offering an honest answer to an honest question.

"You've got three options," Wilson theorized. "Stay in here and we'll smear pizza sauce and crumbs all over your bed … or … let me help you put your shoes on so you can walk out into the living room … or … let me help you out there so your foot doesn't turn, and you won't have to put them on at all. Your choice! But I won't let you walk out there in your bare feet with just the cane. You'd go on your ass."

The look he was getting told Wilson that House wasn't particularly happy about any of those choices. He waited, allowing Gregg to figure out the logic of the situation on his own. Finally, a deep sigh from the bed heralded a decision. "Help me out to the living room. I don't feel like fooling with the shoes … and I'm not too keen on sleeping in a bed smeared with beer and pizza sauce."

"Good choice," Wilson said with a touch of sarcasm. He walked over to where House sat awkwardly, cane rooted at his right side with the leg stretched in front of him as far as he could stand it. "Put the cane in your other hand." House did. "Ready?" A nod. Wilson placed his strong left hand beneath House's armpit and eased him up slowly, gently. When Gregg was on his feet, Wilson brought his friend's right arm around until it was anchored across his shoulders. They navigated the hallway together and emerged into the living room. Wilson led him directly to the lounge chair, eased him into it, then worked the palms of both hands beneath the calf of the leg and lifted it gently onto the ottoman. "Comfortable?"

House looked up to meet the concerned dark eyes. "That was easier than I thought it would be." He leaned back and let the cane slip out of his left hand to bounce lightly on the floor at his side. "I'm hungry." It was a tactical maneuver, designed to take the emphasis off his weakness.

Wilson recognized it and never missed a beat. "Me too! They should be here with the pizza shortly. You ready for a beer?"

"Oh yeah. Bring it on!"

Wilson made for the kitchen and came back with two cans of Coors Light, one of which he snapped open and handed across to House. Their eyes met across the intervening space, and from Gregg's scrunched expression, Wilson anticipated the inevitable pissy comment. He was not disappointed. "I must look too damn decrepit to even open my own beer can!"

Wilson nipped what might have become an extended snark-filled dialogue in the bud. "Yeah, you do. Shut the fuck up and drink it!"

House's eyebrows rose. Whatever he might have said, however, was precluded by a knock on the door. "Pizza time!" he said instead, pointing plaintively to his leg. "Wilson, would you be so kind?" From wounded hero to pathetic cripple in a heartbeat!

Wilson shook his head and rose to answer it with an eye roll which was not lost for a moment on House.

"Jerk!" Wilson mumbled under his breath. His cough reflex triggered. He repressed it, but his back hitched up on him. Again.

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18


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 "Questions Without Answers"

They dispatched the pizza with alacrity and were on their third can of beer. They'd been watching an episode of "LOST", and when it was over, House thumped his empty beer can down on the side table with a snort. "That has got to be the dumbest show I ever saw!"

Across on the couch Wilson slouched comfortably in tee-shirt and boxers, surrounded by the ruins of pizza and breadstick containers. "Yeah … it is! If you don't watch every week, you don't know what's going on. And half the time you don't know what's going on anyhow."

"No shit!" House said. He flicked off the TV, picked his cane off the floor and slowly made to rise from the chair, fully aware that Wilson was watching him nervously.

"I gotta pee!"

He pushed upright on both arms, and this time made it to his feet with a minimum of effort. Moving carefully in order to keep his foot from turning while in bare feet, he headed for the bathroom. Wilson's sharp gaze followed him safely to the door and began picking up their dinner debris to take it to the kitchen.

When House returned from the bathroom, Wilson was still in the process of cleaning up. When he turned off the water in the sink, the soft strains of _Moonlight Serenade_ caressed his senses from the direction of the living room. He let the rest of the clutter set where it was and moved stiffly to the doorway between the two rooms. House was hunched in front of the keyboard, dark head bowed, lost in concentration over the keys. Without a word, Wilson moved closer, gliding up behind him on silent feet, eyes following the nimble fingers that danced across the expanse of the eighty-eight, bringing forth memories of the Glen Miller original that he'd listened to from the time he was a child. Allowing his senses to blend into the music, Wilson closed his eyes and swayed with it, letting his body relax into a boneless lump of pleasure. He raised a hand without even thinking about it, trailing his fingertips along House's spine, and placed it lightly on a bony shoulder. Muscles bunched in alarm for a moment beneath his palm, but then relaxed again as the music swelled softly to a climax.

House's hands did not come off the keys at the end of the song, but segued into the first few bars of _Begin the Beguine._ Wilson undulated with it, lifting his other hand until it rested on House's opposite shoulder, massaging gently with thumbs, index and middle fingers. This time there was no momentary twist of tenseness, no questioning of propriety or personal space intruded upon. Gregg continued to the end of the piece and then allowed his hands to fall into his lap, slumped comfortably with body relaxed and head bowed. Nothing happened for a suspended instant of time which seemed lost somewhere in languid transition to them both. Then House's face slowly came around and turned upward to gaze at Wilson, who still stood in silence behind him with both hands on his shoulders, eyes closed. House inclined his head gradually to the right and down and let his cheek rest lightly on the back of Wilson's hand.

Wilson's eyes popped open and his mouth gaped, drawing a quick, surprised breath at the same moment. House grinned wickedly and the spell was broken.

"Gotcha!"

But his actions belied his words when his left hand rose to touch the tips of Wilson's fingers where they rested over the front of his shoulder, and he turned his face downward just far enough so that his lips caressed the junction where their hands came into contact.

Wilson stared, incredulous. "House?"

"What, Jimmy? You can't tell me you're not in the mood …" House's voice had turned deep, seductive.

"I don't … Jesus!" Wilson dropped to his knees beside the piano bench, suddenly weak, hands retreating, retracing their path down House's spine, elbows resting on the smooth wood. His hands stumbled to a place near House's injured thigh.

House raised his right hand and ran his fingers gently through the mass of silken hair. "Don't what, Jimmy?"

"Don't even … seem to remember how to breathe …" Wilson concluded lamely.

"Let's go to bed. I'll see if I can help you remember."

James Wilson suddenly could not seem to find a means of remaining coherent. "I'm … I mean I don't … I can't …"

"Sure you can. I don't want to be alone in there tonight. Please come with me."

"House … my God … are you all right?"

A muffled curse broke the spell. "Ah, Christ! Everything always comes down to 'am I all right'? Yes, dammit, I'm fine! Will you come with me? You do have to drive me to work in the morning, you know … give me a ride in that new 'cruise ship' you bought … let me carry your briefcase for you because of your 'injured' back and all …" His voice was taking on a tone of barely disguised desperation which was very confusing.

Wilson crumpled inwardly, all his thoughts in haphazard disarray. What the hell was his friend thinking? "House … sometimes you fuck with me to the point of distraction. I was already intending to stay with you and haul your miserable ass to work in the morning … but what are you talking about? Are you asking me to sleep with you? In the same bed?"

House hung his head, looking almost contrite, wondering if he had taken the conversation a little too far. "Maybe I just read too much into your actions awhile ago. When you touched me … ran your fingers up my spine … Christ! I felt it all the way to my dick."

"What?"

"Sorry. I spoke too soon, Wilson. I thought you were …"

Wilson blanched.

_Oh God!_

Suddenly he was on his feet, shifting position until he was sitting on the piano bench beside his friend, pressing his left hip anxiously against House's weaker right one, forcing him to move over. "I'm sorry too … I didn't understand. For a second I thought you were trying to seduce me." Wilson reached forward with both arms, leaning in, gathering House's thin shoulders around and closer to brush the scruffy face against his chest.

House sighed raggedly, voice muffled.

"I was."

He slumped, going limp in Wilson's embrace in a shy, tentative action, as though expecting to be rejected momentarily. They sat in an unnatural position, unmoving. Thoughts stampeding.

After a time Wilson cupped House's cheek gently in the palm of his right hand. "I'm not sure I'm getting what you're saying to me. This is so out-of-character for you, and the further it goes, the more confused I am. I want to be here for you, but I'm still not certain I know what it is you want."

House did not move. If anything, he settled deeper into Wilson's tentative embrace. "I'm not sure I know either. I only know I'm sick of the emptiness and the pain …tired of the bullshit, the struggle, the way people look at me as though I'm some sort of freak. You're the only one who doesn't do that to me. You don't patronize me, or keep trying to _do_ for me … treat me as though I'll shatter into a thousand pieces if you bump against me. You make me want to smack you every time you ask me if I'm okay … but I know you, and you ask _everybody_ that question … every damn day. You can't help it, it's who you are. You give me dignity, and that means a lot, whether I show it or not.

"This morning you told me you loved me, and you floored me because I never saw it coming. Ever since then I've been wondering what the bloody hell you see that's worth loving. The only reasonable conclusion I can come to is … you're lying to make me feel good … or you're lying to yourself. Actually, you're not the only one who's confused here. I just had to know which it was …"

"Gregg …"

"Uh oh … it makes the hackles on the back of my neck stand up when you call me by my first name."

The edges of Wilson's mouth curled a little. He backed away from the light embrace and looked House in the eye. Then his left hand rose also, moving into opposition at the other side of the narrow, melancholy face. Slowly he closed the distance between them until he could press his mouth firmly but gently against House's half-parted lips, lingering, deepening the contact, but not to the degree that they both became breathless. Wilson was smiling a little more, eyes sparkling impishly as they moved away from each other again, reaching out with a thumb to wipe a trace of dampness from the corner of House's eye. There was a truth here, something still hidden that one of them needed to lay bare. It might as well be him.

"Does that answer your question?"

House could not manage anything above a whisper.

"Beyond the shadow of a doubt."

xxxxxxxx

"We need to talk," Wilson said finally. "We need to decide if what happened between us should go any further than this. I need to know how you feel, and God knows I need some time to think it through."

House sighed heavily. He had turned forward again. His body was slumped on the piano bench, head down between his arms, hands propped like support pylons on the sounding board in front of him. He looked like a man who had just met with another defeat in a long line of many which had gone before it.

Wilson sat quietly beside House's rigid form, an arm stretched protectively over his friend's back, the side of his head resting against the spot where Gregg's upper arm joined his shoulder blade. James' hand was turned palm out, the backs of his fingers circling gently through his hair, across and back down. He did not press Gregg for answers or reasons or feelings. They had blindsided one another so completely, and the reality would take time to sort out. There was a complicated history between them already that needed untangling. They must both take a long, hard look at their words and determine whether they were truth, fantasy, or anywhere close to either possibility. Both their lives were already intertwined and complex and intricate, and now that they'd thrown a monkey wrench into the machinery, it made everything even more difficult. Where in hell would it go … _could_ it go … from here?

"House?" Wilson's voice intruded softly into his thoughts.

"Yeah …"

"Let's go into your room … get you settled … take your meds … and we can talk about this. Okay?"

"Yeah. What the hell did I do with my cane?"

"It's hanging off the end of the piano … there at the bass end."

"Oh. Okay. I'm ready. We can go now." House's words were a little off-kilter. A little confused. He had not moved from the position in which he'd been sitting for the past half hour.

In the end, Wilson had to reach across, grasp the cane's handle, then offer it to House and help him curl his fingers around it. "At the risk of having you smack me," he intoned quietly, "are you all right? You act like you're half asleep." It was better than saying his friend was lost somewhere in a fugue-like state.

House snapped out of it, turned and glared for a moment before his features softened. "Uh … yeah … I'm fine."

Getting him off the piano bench was another matter. He'd been sitting too long, and his body was stiff and unyielding. His knee buckled when he placed weight on it, and he cried out in pain when he started to go down. Wilson made a grab for his shoulders and they both managed to stabilize each other.

As he had done earlier in the day, Wilson took House's arm across his shoulders and guided his friend slowly back to his bedroom. Wilson eased him down onto the bed, helped him lie back and then lifted his legs carefully up and around. He placed the bad leg on the pillow and began to massage gently, starting at House's ankle and working toward the knee. There he stopped when he heard Gregg hiss a breath between his teeth and felt the man's body stiffen perceptively. "Still hurt?" He asked.

House nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Wilson got up and went over to the bathroom, returning momentarily with a glass of water. He tipped a Vicodin from the bottle on the night stand and offered it over, waiting for House to take it and hand the glass back.

Wilson put the glass and the bottle on the night stand and resumed his perch on the bed near House's feet. "I'm going to work on your leg."

The blue eyes glittered in warning and House's right hand snaked out to stop the motion of Wilson's fingers as he turned in the direction of the painful thigh.

"No! Don't …"

"You know I'd never hurt you," Wilson said. He reached out for the second time, and House's hand reluctantly withdrew.

Wilson began again, both hands on either side of the infarction site, kneading inward near the deep surgical scar with careful strokes, then working back out again, and upward with increasing pressure on the painful muscles. The leg was cramped from lack of use, overuse … it didn't matter … and it took some minutes of careful massage until it began to release tension beneath his concentrated manipulations. House, in the meantime, relaxed by degrees, and began to melt into the surface of the bed.

For a long time there was no conversation between them, only the sounds of the cold wind through the building's eaves and whatever traffic moved about on the icy street outside the bedroom window. After awhile Wilson realized that the Vicodin had finally kicked in and House was calming beneath its influence; that and the soothing hands on his leg. The blue eyes remained alert, but he continued to stare at the ceiling as though something up there might be of great interest and fascination.

Wilson knew his friend was having a hard time marshaling his thoughts in the direction they must turn tonight. House was brilliant at his job, at ferreting out illness and severe injury, and at issuing orders. He was also a genius at sarcastic one-liners. But when it came to expressing feelings, or letting another person see behind those barriers of inscrutability, he could be almost as inarticulate as a ten-year-old. Wilson did not press him, but stretched out casually by his side, and so far House had not chased him away. Wilson sensed it was as good a gauge as any that the other man was at least in a receptive mood.

Finally Wilson yawned and adjusted his position on the bed. He withdrew his hand from House's shoulder and curled himself into a ball with both hands beneath his right cheek. House turned his head away from the wall and toward the man he trusted. His back hurt.

"Tired?"

Wilson nodded. "Yeah. Tired and a little achy. I think you were probably right this morning … I'm catching cold, and I'm going to end up with a snotty nose …"

"There's Sudafed in the medicine cabinet. Why don't you take some … and I was kidding about the snotty nose thing."

"I know. And I already took some … but OTC stuff doesn't normally work on me. I'm still going to get a snotty nose …"

"Wilson?"

"Mmmm?"

"I'm sorry I made a move on you today."

"Oh? Are you sure? Or are you saying what you think I want to hear?"

"Don't know. _Do_ you want to hear it?"

"I don't know either. The thought of us together has certainly crossed my mind a few times … funny thoughts about me and you. I'd be lying if I said different. But I always thought you'd never let me get anywhere near you in that way."

"I wouldn't have. But something changed today. I don't know what happened, or why. All of a sudden it felt good to have you leaning against me … holding me up when I almost fell … twice! You always know what I need before I know I need it … hearing you bitch at me for taking too many meds, bitch at me for walking around without the cane, bitch at me for not eating right. Everything! This morning when you went flying through the door soaked to the skin and skidded across the damn floor, I saw you in my head … falling on your ass, fucking up your back, and … 'bang!' … the shoe was on the other foot and it was me looking out for you the way you always look out for me. I acted it out with Cuddy, I guess … and now we have to cover my lie with another lie. I'm sorry."

"Hey …" Wilson rolled back onto his side of the bed and looked House in the eye.

"What?"

"Stop apologizing. It's scaring the shit out of me! And I do love you."

"I guess I knew that for a long time, but even the thought of what it might mean down the road gives me goose pimples. You're younger than me, and I was out of my mind for even thinking we'd have a chance. You can't spend the rest of your life running interference for a cripple!"

"You must really get your rocks off telling me what I can and can't do with my life!"

"I'm being realistic, finally. It can't last, Wilson. I would probably destroy you."

Wilson's response was deeply sarcastic. "Even you don't have that much power! You can't destroy someone who's already destroyed. I'm pretty far down that road."

"Meaning … what?"

"House, don't be naïve. My history of relationships has been self-destructive. I've been pretty much like smoke in the wind all my life. I don't know why that is, but I don't seem able to control it. I drift in and out of love like a stupid teenager. I've killed three marriages, all before my fortieth birthday! You can't keep smoke from drifting, and after it drifts far enough, it just … disappears."

"And then reappears somewhere else? Is that what you're telling me?"

"I suppose. You're not the only one with a rotted brain. We'd destroy each other."

"Is this a 'can-you-top-this?' contest?"

"Probably."

"Well. At least we agree on something."

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The conversation they intended to have that night never happened. They both fell asleep with the lamp still on, half clothed, half spread-eagled and reaching for each other. The bed clothing lay bunched in disarray. The lights were still on in the living room and in the hallway; and the pizza mess still looked like a sunken shipwreck in the scummy ice cold water in the kitchen sink.

House came to consciousness just before 3:00 a.m. with an involuntary grunt of pain. He reached for the Vicodin, quickly thumbed off the lid and downed two of them. When he pulled back his hand from replacing the bottle on the night stand, it gravitated to his thigh as though possessed with a mind of its own. Long powerful fingers grasped the area where the convoluted surgical scar bisected healthy skin and muscle. Sometimes he wondered if he looked close enough, he might find his own fingerprints etched like acid on glass in the surrounding flesh. Not a pleasant thought!

Beside him, Wilson breathed heavily. In the soft glow of the lamp, the youthful features looked very vulnerable, very beautiful; very innocent. House wondered what the hell he'd been thinking when he'd tried to put the make on him. He had never before entertained the thought that there might be a single 'gay' bone in his body. Or Wilson's, for that matter! But his desire to be near Wilson was an agonizing, deep-seated need. He had never found a male body to be sexually desirable, even in his wildest fantasies. But Wilson was different. Tantalizing, tempting, infuriating.

House wondered if his own physical pain was causing him to lose his mind. It wasn't the first time he had considered that. He shifted position, denying the angry discomfort in his leg, and looked closer at the face of the man beside him. Wilson was not only his best friend, but also his willing slave, co-conspirator and whipping boy, whose quick wit was right on a par with his own. James withstood all House's abuse, anger and bitterness with unending good humor and infinite patience. And often a deaf ear. House had learned long ago that there was nothing in his repertoire of insults and vitriolic comment that would permanently chase Wilson away from his side. Unceasingly gentle, but fully capable of snarking back in reprisal at his friend's sharp tongue, James often ignored his own needs in order to make things easier for House.

In the quiet solitude of night, the sound of their breathing was the only thing to break the stillness. Gregory House was wide awake now, his pain becoming more aggressive, but he was determined to ride out the encroaching bone-deep ache that came on as the affects of his last Vicodin dose wore off. It hurt to try to lie still and watch Wilson sleep in such innocence, and yet endure the discomfort when all his instincts demanded that he move and stave off the crawl that was beginning beneath his skin and the burning sensation that threatened to set his damaged nerve endings on fire. Gregg lay stiff instead, arm muscles distended, a clenched fist digging knuckles into his thigh, the other pressed hard against his forehead. It would take a good ten minutes more for the renewing effects of the powerful Hydrocodone to get into his blood stream and cross the blood-brain barrier, bringing the relief he needed. His body was trembling in misery now, and he could not relax to a point that would not shake hell out of the entire bed.

Beside him, Wilson stirred restlessly, even in sleep intuiting that something was wrong. His eyelids fluttered and opened. He frowned, instantly awake. His body remained still for a moment, his mind processing whatever had awakened him with a cold spike of alarm. He looked to his right and in the dim halo of the lamp's glow, focused on Gregg House's rigid body.

With a moan of realization, James rolled onto his side and reached across to pull House's rock-hard forearm away from his face, taking the man's hand into both of his own, prying the stiffened fingers away from his palm. "House? What is it … your leg?"

"Yeah." The word came out between clenched teeth. "Took meds, just a minute or so ago …waiting for them to kick in. I feel like I have the DT's." House drew a deep breath and consciously forced himself to relax. Wilson loosened some of the pressure he hadn't realized he'd been exerting on the other man's fingers. House looked at him and made a face. Even in pain he could manage a wisecrack. "I'm glad that wasn't my right hand … I wouldn't be able to walk for a week!"

Wilson released the hand and made a wry face at the sorry joke.

Softly: "Idiot!"

He rolled over again and sat up, got out of bed and scooted over to the other side. There was tightness in his belly that hurt a little, and he was becoming more congested. He ignored it. He reached up and tugged House's sweat pants down to his bare feet, then off completely and tossed them in a heap on the floor. Within a few moments he was performing acupressure on House's right foot, moving quickly up the calf to the knee, and further still until the quivering muscles of the damaged thigh began to smooth out beneath his stroking fingers.

House arched his back, pressed his head deep into the pillow in relief and then gradually let his body go limp. "Oh God! That feels good …"

"Whatever you need, whenever you need it," Wilson said softly. It didn't hurt to keep reminding him, keep him aware that Wilson would do whatever it took.

The blue eyes were soft in the gaunt face, and a genuine smile appeared through the stubble on House's jaw. The meds were finally kicking in. Wilson winked and began to get up to return to the other side of the bed. House, however, grabbed his tee-shirt and pulled him down again. "Come here, you!"

Wilson scrambled to maintain his balance, stomach tightening a little, trying not to inadvertently strike the bad leg. "Jesus!" He exclaimed. "I could have hurt you!"

"Right now you could hit me with a sledge hammer and I wouldn't feel it," House joked. "I was thinking it would be nice to just hang onto you for a minute."

Wilson frowned. Was the Vicodin suddenly making him amorous? Cautiously he lowered himself onto his belly, back onto the surface of the bed and straightened himself along House's right side. The bed pillow prevented him from coming into contact with the leg, and yet he was wary. He placed his right arm across House's chest and rested the palm of his hand at the crest of House's shoulder. He looked for a moment into the tired blue eyes and then lowered his cheek onto the other side of House's chest and let himself relax by degrees. In a moment he felt a wiry arm circle his own shoulders with a warm tenderness he was not quite sure he would ever believe. He closed his eyes, wondering where this was going to end up.

Gregg whispered softly into his ear. "I want this. I want it for as long as we can keep it together. I want it at least until the smoke starts to drift in the wind."

Wilson's throat filled and he could not speak. So he nodded his head instead. House's arms tightened around him.

They slept.

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	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 "Wilson Goes Down"

Morning found them on opposite sides of the bed. Sometime between 3:00 a.m. and dawn, Wilson had disentangled himself and hurried to the bathroom. He relieved himself without turning on the light, and so missed the clouded appearance of his urine in the bowl. Back in the bedroom, he moved to a spot where his nocturnal movements could not hurt Gregg. All the sheets and blankets were kicked into a heap too far down to do either of them any good. He was catching a real snoot-full. He hurt all over.

House was canted slightly onto his left side, a position he was usually unable to maintain for any length of time. His scarred, bare right leg was bent a little at the knee and positioned on the pillow just a tad in front of his left one. His arms were folded upward, hands relaxed near his Adam's apple. The tiny circle of pure-white hairs near the point of his chin stuck out like a beacon in the dark forest of stubble. His hair was a brown, shot-thru-with-silver haystack, his head burrowed in his other pillow, face peaceful and unlined in deep sleep. The noticeable lack of pain took at least ten years off his age.

Across from him, Wilson went back to sleep on his right side like a smaller mirror image of his friend. He was sprawled awkwardly, pillow-poor, since Gregg was hogging all of them. His left hand lay curled beneath his chin in the same manner House's was, but the right one lay with fingers unfurled across the bed's surface, protectively as always, come hell or high water, in the other man's direction. The puke-green tee-shirt he'd borrowed was hitched up almost to his armpits and twisted around his body as though trying to wring itself out while Wilson still wore it. It was a little uncomfortable, but he was sleeping too deeply now to be more than peripherally aware. Thick auburn hair haloed James' face and lay in static-electric strands on the sheet. He too, was out like a light.

Except that all the lights in the condo were still on … and it was almost 7:00 a.m. The alarm would go off shortly.

Wilson's breathing was becoming increasingly labored as he slept, almost like one more self-fulfilling prophecy of Gregg House's. He was indeed catching a severe cold, and his consciousness was beginning to surface. Internal clocks could sometimes be a pain in the ass. Years of unerring routine usually did that to a man.

The wind had died, finally, after having dried up the rest of yesterday's rain. It was better than waking up to a world coated with early morning ice. Cars were moving on the street, some of them with god-awful loud mufflers, some with double-accented bass that threatened to drop the bottom out of one's stomach. When the alarm clock went off at 7:00, both men were already in the shadow world of grey wakefulness, just as Princeton was waking up around them.

Gregg unfolded slowly and reached over to hit the clock's shut-off button, grimacing a bit as his leg woke up also and left him know it was ready for 'breakfast'. He lifted the Vicodin bottle and shook a pill into the palm of his hand. He popped it, swallowed, and tilted his head back just as Wilson's eyes opened to look across at him. As Wilson's lips parted to speak, House lifted a finger to his own lips, nose wrinkled in warning.

"Shhht! Whatever you were going to say, I don't want to hear it."

"I was _going_ to say 'Good Morning'!" Suddenly Wilson sneezed twice in a row with a violence he had not seen coming. He felt a painful twinge in the area of his kidneys, and another in his stomach, but dismissed both. "Oh, God! You were right! I have a snotty nose, my head feels like a clenched fist, and my back thinks it's in a vise."

"Dammit, I told you so!" House reached across the bed and pulled gently on the index finger of the hand still stretched out in his direction. "Now you've gone and got yourself sick … on top of your 'bad back'. What a hell of a way to start the workday!" But the words, for once, were not filled with sarcasm; only a silly, quiet, exasperated indulgence that caused Wilson's eyes to burn a little.

"I forgot about the 'back' thing. Oh hell!" He sniffled noisily. Sneezed again. "Ow! Maybe I won't be acting …" He coughed, the deep, cutting kind. Choked it off.

House was grinning, grimacing, both at the same time. "I told you I'd help you if your back hurts too much …"

Wilson frowned. "Shut. Up!" He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stiffly, disentangling himself from the wrinkled tee-shirt and pulling it off over his head. His silky hair rose into the air full of static electricity, making him look like a startled porcupine. House chortled gleefully.

Wilson sneezed again, three times in a row this time; explosively. He hugged both arms to his stomach when the painful twinge hit again. "Oh, for crying out loud! Damn you, House! I _hate _it when you're right!" He turned on his heel and headed for the bathroom.

Behind him, Gregg sat up slowly, grasped his bad leg and lifted it carefully off the edge of the bed, then quickly followed through with the other one. Feet flat on the floor, he pushed up with both arms until he was wavering on his feet, finding an edgy balance as he grasped his cane and set it against his side. His leg hurt, but it didn't seem quite as angry this morning. It might have had something to do with Wilson's gentle manipulations in the middle of the night. God! He had to find a way to keep that boy around!

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They stepped off Gateway's elevator into the underground garage at 8:30 a.m. They were both dressed for work, but their "look" would give their constituents cause to giggle, and they both knew it. It couldn't be helped.

Gregg House was dressed like … well … Gregg House.

And James Wilson, Boy Wonder Oncologist, was also dressed like … well … Gregg House in French loafers!

Wilson's expensive suit was stuffed into a plastic grocery bag to be dropped off at the cleaners, and since he had no work clothing stashed at Gregg's place, he was once again an Olsen Twin. He hoped his lab coat would cover most of it. He was uncomfortable, but what could he do? It was too far to run all the way out to Ridge Road for another work suit when they were already perilously close to arriving late for work, and already in Princeton. He would tough it out in gentlemanly fashion. Even the thought entered his consciousness a little tongue-in-cheek! He would smile patiently at the snickers and guffaws that greeted him during the day … _plus_ … put up with the sarcastic comments of the sartorially challenged pundit limping along at his side.

"Don't forget to pass me your knapsack when we get out of the car," House grunted as they walked toward the beautiful new Pacifica. "You certainly can't carry it while your back is hurting you so bad …"

"House, I'm going to grab your damn cane and hit you over the head with it if you don't shut up about that!" Wilson threatened.

House was grinning and in a very good mood this morning. "Nothing you haven't done before …" he mumbled. His blue back-pack was hanging from his right shoulder and looked to be weighing him down. Wilson wasn't too sure if he could let himself go through with this damned farce. Visualizing House with any extra burdens to carry almost made him wince in empathic pain, and so he had remedied the situation by the only method he could think of. He was not confident at all that House would not put on some kind of show and end up harming himself by being a smartass. So Wilson took a few sneaky moves to bamboozle him and hoped it would work.

Still, a part of James took a perverse delight in the deception they would perpetuate together. He supposed he could transpose in his mind the misery of the cold he could feel coming on, and its accompanying aches, using that discomfort to act out the part of "nagging pain" in his back. In reality he did feel a measure of tightness around his kidneys, so his actual dramatic debut might not be so far-fetched after all. He smiled to himself. He had a wad of Kleenex stuffed in the pocket of House's tan jacket, a tin-foil packet of Sudafed in a jeans pocket, and a very real stuffy head and aching body that was becoming more and more inconvenient as the minutes ticked by.

None of this did he mention to House.

House, meanwhile, stood and stared at the brand new Chrysler Pacifica, taking in its clean lines and state-of-the-art configuration.

"_WHOA!"_ His only comment.

Wilson figured his friend approved.

All the way to PPTH, House fiddled with the CD player, the radio, the electric seat, the seat's heater, the dome light, the cigarette lighter, the ash tray, the glove compartment, the center console, the skylight, the digital direction finder and outside thermometer, the window button, the door locks, and finally, he caressed the ivory leather interior lovingly with the palms of his hands.

"This Mother really is almost like a cruise ship, isn't it? Wow! It's like a home-away-from-home, huh Wilson? You could live in the damned thing! Bet you plunked down a couple of pesos for this baby, didn't you?" The wide blue eyes rolled in Wilson's direction in obvious delight. He wasn't really requesting answers, just running off at the mouth, and it was a pleasant departure from his usual need-for-information attitude.

Wilson grinned at his friend's frivolity, feeling himself clearly overwhelmed in knowing he was the only person in the world privileged to ever witness it. He was being treated to a rare glimpse of Gregory House as he had been before the tragedy to his leg and the life of pain he'd subsequently been forced to endure. It made Wilson want to cry. So many times these days he missed that aspect of Gregg, and he knew he was being a sentimental fool even as his eyes misted up and his resistance melted down. He would gladly have given everything he owned to have the happy-go-lucky, clown-faced, steel-trap-mind, sarcastic, juvenile, brilliantly beautiful person he had known for so many years … back! Permanently!

He drove through the Drive-Thru arch at the dry cleaner's drop-off window, grabbed a ticket, shoved the plastic grocery bag through the opening and kept going. The suit would be ready that evening.

Wilson pulled the Pacifica smoothly into the nearest _Handicap_ space in the hospital's parking garage and shoved the _Handicap_ placard he kept for Gregg's benefit against the car's windshield. They were only a few steps from the double doors to the ground floor's main corridor. It was the position from which House would have the least amount of walking to do if they were to pull off this "bad back" bullshit … at least far enough to get past Cuddy's office and into the nearest elevator. The lady was not easy to fool.

House already had his seat rolled back, passenger door open, and was gingerly lowering his foot onto the concrete in preparation to getting out. Wilson sat and watched his stubborn friend closely as Gregg planted his cane squarely at his hip. He then reached back in to retrieve his knapsack to sling it once again over his shoulder. He paused to cast a comical conspirator's glance in Wilson's direction, and when Wilson hesitated momentarily, the glance became a glare which shouted:

"_Chicken!" _

Wilson rolled his eyes and sighed. Resigned to the situation, he pushed his brief case onto the passenger seat where House could pick it up easily, which he did, then glowered angrily at its lack of weight. Wilson had emptied everything out of it surreptitiously just before they'd left the condo. He suppressed a smile at the snarky expression of friendly betrayal he saw on the pissed-off face. He almost laughed out loud, but a sudden stitch in his side caused him to clamp his teeth onto his lower lip just in time.

Wilson exited his car laboriously, not quite feigning discomfort, but looking a little surprised at its actual presence, and stood for a few moments with a hand leaning against the roof. He arched his back to the point of painful stiffness, and the area of tenderness around his kidneys protested faintly. If he was going to play this silly game, by God, then he intended to give an Oscar-worthy performance. He was experiencing more than a little pain now, but he figured he could work with it.

_Urinary tract infection? Kidney infection? What gives?_

Nah! His urine hadn't looked off-color this morning. Had it? He sneezed explosively. Twice. Coughed hard. It hurt. A lot. He covered his nose and mouth with a Kleenex.

"Ow!" Muffled.

Across from him, Gregory House was staring at him with an eyebrow elegantly elevated. Gregg hadn't expected this. He would probably have called it _"method acting."_ Wilson suppressed a spurt of laughter with a deeply pained look and glared at House in return across the roof of the car.

Their labored passage along the main corridor that led past Cuddy's office, and which they could not avoid if House was to remain on his feet the entire distance, turned into a perverted art form no more than twelve steps in. It was exactly 9:00 a.m. and they had arrived at work at the exact time Wilson had promised Cuddy the day before.

Murphy's Law and The Law of Averages seemed to be moving arm-in-arm this morning. As they drew abreast of Cuddy's office and attempted to steal past it unseen, the door opened outward and disgorged not only Lisa Cuddy, but the jabbering forms of Robert Chase, Eric Foreman and Allison Cameron. The four of them were in the midst of some heated speculations concerning a case file that Foreman held in his hand and waved in front of the group as they talked.

House saw the office door begin to swing outward and made an attempt to duck into a side alcove. He was unsuccessful, however, as he felt a hard tug at the end of his jacket. He glanced back and frowned indignantly at Wilson, who had a firm hold on the hem. "You started this charade, House! At least have the balls to go through with it!" Wilson hissed.

Reluctantly, House swung back into cadence, looking burdened with his back pack and the added "weight" of Wilson's brief case. He wrinkled his nose at Wilson who had no more strength to argue. James was walking a little too stiffly to make the charade totally convincing, and he held his body canted slightly to the left, which was turning it into a parody. House was ready to give him a shot in the ribs with his elbow until he saw the deepening crease appear between Wilson's eyes and the left one begin to squint closed painfully. He was coughing again, holding his sides.

He knew Wilson too well, and Wilson was no longer faking!

_Oh fuck!_

Chase looked puzzled at first:

_Dr. Wilson wearing blue jeans and a Motley Crue tee shirt? Old tan jacket with no tie? What the hell …? _

Robert Chase's mouth dropped. He simply stared.

Cameron and Cuddy both glanced up at the same moment; Cameron at House with his double burden of two heavy pieces of work baggage. She frowned, troubled.

_Ooh … his poor leg!_

Cuddy's eyes went from one man to the other, taking in the hilarious similarity of apparel and letting herself smile at that thought, knowing Wilson had probably stayed at House's place the night before.

_Jimmy Stewart and Walter Brennan! _

The second thing that drew her attention as they approached was the difficulty in their movements. Both men were in pain. House was carrying Wilson's brief case in deference to Wilson's back injury. It was a big concession for House. Normally he was barely able … _or_ willing … to carry even his own materials, and now he had added Wilson's? And Wilson looked awful. His face was flushed. He was hurting more than he was letting on. They both were!

Directly to Cuddy's left, Eric Foreman's dark eyes clouded; half concerned, half suspicious. Of the Ducklings, this man was the most like House in manner. He looked for the puzzles, the coincidences and the contradictions. Foreman frowned. Something was cockeyed here. The case file in his hand was important, urgent, but the scene confronting him now, at this moment, took priority. It touched the part of his analytical mind that said:

_Something here is way off base, man … find it!_

Wilson and House halted in front of the small group in the middle of the corridor. Flummoxed! Both men were ready to confess their charade, come clean and take the consequences. But the faces confronting them were not the faces of disapproval or exasperation at having been duped. They were faces of concern, worry, and in one instance, pity. House and Wilson exchanged glances, and at that moment, James Wilson exploded into a coughing fit that wracked his body and doubled him over. He covered his mouth with the wad of Kleenex and groaned with the pain that flared in his middle. Dark blotches began to appear in his field of vision. Curious! His world turned fuzzy and with a half-strangled cry, he began to sink to the floor.

Gaping and frightened, House dumped his back pack and Wilson's brief case from his shoulder, dropped his cane and crumpled downward, landing on his ass at Wilson's side. The pain in his leg flared, but he ignored it in the face of another, more urgent pain. He'd only just begun to suspect that Wilson was hurting for real, but his friend had never opened his mouth.

_Damn heroics! Damn Wilson!_

Foreman and Chase moved quickly, supporting Wilson as he sank onto the smooth surface of the corridor. Medical personnel and on-lookers who were passing nearby, rushed in to offer help. Cuddy held up her hand to warn them off. "We have this covered, thank you."

Some, with stolen backward glances, some with no more than casual shrugs, drifted away again. You didn't mess with Lisa Cuddy.

Wilson realized he was more ill than he'd first thought in the same moment the world began to drop from under him. His surroundings tilted to the point that he could no longer remain on his feet. To his immediate right, House dropped at his side, and he was afraid Gregg's leg had given out. Then he felt Chase ease him into a sitting position on the floor and kneel at his side with a gentle hand on his back and the other at his shoulder. He nodded his thanks, but the hospital walls were reeling and his head was spinning. He could not speak. His head rang like a gong and his stomach lurched. He flinched. It occurred to him that he might throw up.

Foreman pulled House away from Wilson's side with a firm and insistent pressure beneath his boss's right arm. "Don't do it, House!" He growled. "Chase has him and we'll take care of him. Be still before you do damage to yourself!"

The look on House's face as he swung around to glare at Foreman, was homicidal. "Let me go!"

The burly neurologist's only answer was to heft House to his feet before he could protest further. Foreman picked up his cane from where he'd dropped it, nudged his upper arm with it and handed it across.

House grabbed the necessary prop and leaned hard on it, but said nothing further. Foreman released him, but stood his ground. Cuddy was already on her knees at Wilson's side and ordering Cameron in a stiff, formal tone, to grab a wheelchair from the clinic.

Cameron turned and ran in the opposite direction, dark hair and lab coat undulating in her wake. Cuddy and Chase remained on the floor with Wilson. House lingered impotently, watching and glowering at Foreman with murderous intent, an attitude to which Foreman paid no attention whatsoever. Instead, he stood like a wrought-iron pillar with both arms folded over his chest, watching his colleagues do their work and daring House to cross the line. If his leg were a bit more stable, it would have been no contest. Gregg, however, knew better than to do "bull in a China shop" now. His thigh hurt and his knee was as weak as it had been in a long time. He knew he could not begin to press the issue. He needed to be near Wilson, but if he made a scene, it would not go well for anyone. Neither Cuddy nor the kids needed another body sprawled in pain on the floor in the middle of the corridor. Instead, he dug in his jacket pocket for the Vicodin bottle in the same manner in which a toddler reaches for a pacifier. Get rid of the "mad" by medicating it. Comfort in small packages!

They helped Wilson into the wheelchair and headed toward exam room one. House brushed past Foreman and started after them, but paused angrily when Foreman called his name. "House!"

"What now?" He swung around too quickly and staggered, barely regaining his balance as his knee became more unstable.

Foreman caught him swiftly with a smooth move beneath his elbow and restored his balance in an unobtrusive maneuver. "Wait up, House … I'll walk along with you." There was no condescension in his voice, and House searched the dark face for signs of patronizing. There was none. House paused until Foreman's long stride brought their bodies even. Foreman's eyes were glittering and there was no trace of mirth in his voice. "As I've heard you say on more than one occasion: 'yield to the logic of the situation!'" It was as close as he dared come to "I told you so!"

House rolled his eyes. Oh fine! The Ducklings were learning to quote his old "Trekkie" euphemisms back at him very effectively. "Point taken," he mumbled. "Thanks."

Foreman allowed himself to grin. "No sweat!"

Wilson was already out of the wheelchair, out of House's tan jacket, out of his French loafers, and stretched out on the examination table when they entered. Cuddy had an IV in her hand, preparing to swab Wilson's arm. At the head of the bed, materials necessary to start an IV lay ready. Cuddy connected the tubing to the bag and set the drip flow to the proper amount. Chase was readying a blood-pressure cuff, checking vitals and double-checking each procedure. Cameron was preparing to draw a blood sample, and it looked like Wilson was in good hands. Foreman rolled a wheeled stool in House's direction with a discreet nod and an insistent glare. House sank down onto it and rolled himself toward Wilson's head. "Hey … Wonder Boy Oncologist … they're gonna make you pee in a Dixie cup!"

"Hey, limping twerp …" They were preparing him to be rolled out of there for further evaluation. "They're gonna make you drink out of a specimen jar …" He winced as another needle punctured his arm. Pain meds.

Cuddy suppressed a smile and taped a square of gauze to Wilson's arm. She shoved his forearm against his upper arm and held it there as she made a disgusted sound deep in her throat. "I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a mouth battle between two ten-year-olds!"

House hid a smirk also and ignored the barb, saying instead: "We need to admit him overnight for observation." He looked down at Wilson, but his friend's eyes were closed and he'd gone all relaxed and out of it. "His back pain was worse than I thought, dammit!" House regretted deeply that his foolish fabrication the day before had suddenly become blown way out of proportion, although he would never admit it unless pressed, and maybe not even then. A tired old phrase nagged at the edge of his mind:

"_Be careful what you wish for … you may get it!" _ _Thanks, Uhura! _

"He didn't tell me he was feeling that bad. Just kept griping that he was catching cold … and I kept telling him to keep his snotty nose to himself."

"He's been around _you_ too long!" Foreman quipped.

"Dr. House." Cuddy's voice was pitched low. "Don't beat yourself up about this. Foreman's right. In many ways, he's as stubborn as you are. He has a urinary tract infection … possible kidney involvement. I'm going to order an IVP to be sure. His pain probably came on suddenly and you couldn't have known. He did get caught in the rain yesterday, and that wasn't fun. I did too. Wrenching his back didn't help. We'll start him on antibiotics … Ampicillin probably … and admit him overnight as you suggest." She looked across at him and glared. "You could benefit this hospital greatly if you and your people did a few turns in the clinic … or if your leg is bothering you, go to your office and get caught up with your paperwork. Either way, Dr. Wilson will be well taken care of.

"Another thing …" She turned to look at both men as though she'd forgotten something. "A patient came into the emergency room after collapsing in the middle of the street downtown. He almost got hit by a pickup truck. He's in sad shape; dirty, ragged, skin and bones. He's probably homeless. The attending says his symptoms present a lot like Polio … and that's practically unheard of these days. She turned her attention pointedly to House. You and Foreman might want to go check that out first."

House blinked. "Polio?"

"That's what I said. The E. R. nurse started a chart on him. Foreman has a copy … don't you?" Her eyes sought Foreman's, and he nodded.

"I put it on the counter over there when I came in here." He turned to House and stared at him intently. "Want to check it out with me?"

House wheeled himself across to the counter, picked up the sheet of paper and scanned it quickly. He sighed, rolled himself back and looked down into Wilson's peaceful face. His friend was in good hands. The prospect of clinic duty and spending the afternoon on his feet, or sitting in his office while his leg thumped counterpoint with his heartbeat, did not sound appealing at all. He gathered himself, grasped his cane and pushed himself laboriously off the stool. He turned to Foreman. "Let's go." Then to Cuddy: "You'll keep me in the loop, right?"

She nodded understanding. "As soon as I get him settled, I'll page you."

"Okay." House rolled the stool into the nearest corner and made for the exam room's door. Minimizing his lameness, he stepped back into the corridor with Foreman at his heels.

Chase and Cameron walked out behind them. Clinic duty called.

House watched them go and quickened his pace, thanking whatever powers-that-be that it wasn't him.

Foreman rolled his eyes and hurried to catch up.

Cuddy smoothed Wilson's damp hair off his forehead and lifted the phone from its cradle. It was time to move the youthful doctor to X-Ray for an IVP, and then to a room for the night.

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	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 "Roger"

"Sir? Can you tell me your name?" Her hand rested lightly on his bony shoulder and she kept her voice low.

They'd given him pain meds and he was still groggy, but he had come around just as she and an orderly finished cleaning him up and shaving his splotchy beard. He was pitifully thin, not much more than skin over bone. They'd thrown his shoes away and cut part of his ragged coat and torn clothing off him. His dark hair had been matted, his scalp encrusted. They'd had to use a soft-bristled brush to loosen all of it before they could wash it away. His finger and toenails were long and dirty and unkempt, and when they'd finished cleansing his battered body, she'd trimmed them gently. His skin was tender beneath all the dirt, and his feet bled in the places where his ill-fitting shoes had rubbed him. The orderly brought antiseptic skin cream and left it with her, then departed to attend to other duties.

She smiled down at him in reassurance as she finished massaging some of the cream into his feet and face and hands. She capped the tube and set it aside, then lightly bandaged his injured feet. There was fear in his dark eyes, and very old pain emanating from within their mirrored depths. She wondered if he might be mentally challenged or maybe a little psychotic. He was youngish; early thirties, perhaps, and he was hurting and a little uncoordinated from the pain medication. They'd dressed him in one of the light green hospital gowns beneath a terry bathrobe, and covered him to the waist with a warm blanket. He looked like he might blow away in the wind.

Now he was regarding her warily with those brown, brown eyes, searching every inch of her face as though trying to decide if she might be someone he could trust. He was oddly attractive for someone in such poor physical condition. He had a heart-shaped face, a long, thin nose, thick brows, and the heavy mane of his dark brown hair covered his ears and curled at the ends. His chin was pointed, his mouth full, his cheek bones high and sculpted above cheeks which were much too hollow.

"Who are you?" He asked weakly. "Where am I?" His voice was soft, yet cracking from disuse. "What happened to me?"

She sighed, pursed her lips. It looked as though she must answer some questions here before she got to ask them. So be it. Not like she'd never experienced this type of fear before. She settled on her stool, patted his shoulder in reassurance where her hand rested upon it, and began.

"I'm Maria. I'm an ER Nurse, and you're at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I'm told that you were crossing the street and fainted right there in the middle. Do you remember any of it?"

"N-No. I don't. I was sleeping … in the park … near a street vent …and some people were throwing stones at me … and there was a dog barking … and I got up and ran. But my legs … they wouldn't work right. That's the last thing I remember. Did I hurt myself?" His eyes began to dart here and there across his body with a fearful intensity, as though searching for some indication of injury. He seemed puzzled by the fragrant, clean pinkish cast to his own skin.

She moved her hand down his thin arm and clasped his fingers with her own. "No, you haven't been hurt, except for, maybe, your feet. Not today anyway. You came close, but the driver of the truck was able to stop in time. You fainted! You hit the street pretty hard. You have a little bit of road rash. You _fainted!_" She emphasized the word, hoping it would penetrate. "Were you not feeling well? Have you had headaches? Fever? Did you have stiffness in your neck? Back? Do your muscles hurt? Are your arms and legs weak? Do they hurt you?"

He stared at her as though she had just wrapped her hands around his soul. "All of that. How did you know?"

"Oh … an educated guess." She smiled; decided it was safe to use words of more than one syllable with him. There was the shadow of a keen intelligence beginning to emerge from the dull, pain-filled eyes. "We're going to run some tests on you … find out what the problem really is. You're suffering from exposure … it's barely twenty degrees out there! Can you move your arms and legs okay?"

He looked worried. "Yeah, I can move everything fine, but it hurts when I do. And I can't pay you …"

"Money isn't important."

He continued to stare, adding a frown to the mix of emotions warring across his face, but didn't reply.

She patted his fingers, then placed his hand back at his side and straightened on the stool. "Will you tell me your name now?"

He switched his expression back to "puzzled" for a moment. "The guys just call me 'Roger'."

_Guys? _

"Roger? Roger … what?"

"I don't know. I haven't known for a long time. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. We'll figure it out. Do you remember if you might have gotten hit on the head? Have you taken a nasty fall lately?" He looked away, face blank again, and she could see his eyes swimming out of focus. She wasn't sure if she had his attention. "Roger?"

His awareness came back quickly. "I don't know. Maria?" Had that been a joke?

She laughed. This was a nice kid. He deserved more in life than what he'd obviously been dealt. She winked at him and then got up. "I'm going to make arrangements for you to have those tests, and have someone take a closer look at your foot injuries. I want you to be still and try to sleep until they get you a room assignment. Then I'll be back. Okay?"

He was still looking at her, searching her face. A smile tugged one corner of his mouth upward a tad. "Okay. Thank you."

She pulled the curtain which cordoned off his cubicle and walked back toward the nurses' station. Something niggled at her mind; something about that crooked little smile that suggested an odd familiarity. She frowned for a moment, thinking. Someone she knew who did that? Or had met? He probably reminded her of some celebrity or other. That happened with patients sometimes. Hugh Laurie's eyes … or John Laroquette's silver hair … Harrison Ford's charming lopsided grin …something! She dismissed it as silly, pulled his chart from the rack and perused it.

Dr. Fetterolf had mentioned something about polio symptoms. God knew exposure to filth and bacterial contamination in his obviously difficult lifestyle certainly warranted that suspicion. She wasn't sure if she agreed with it or not, but it wasn't her call.

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Eric Foreman hurried to keep up with his boss as Gregory House thundered along the corridor like a madman. When House got a head of steam up, his very momentum carried him along like a bike tire with a stone in the tread. _Thump-Step … Thump-step … Thump-step …_ Whatever the hell kept him on his feet after the way he'd looked and moved earlier this morning, Eric didn't know, but whatever it was, he wished he could bottle it. He could make a fortune!

After leaving Cuddy and Wilson in the clinic examination room, House hadn't wasted any time lighting out in the direction of the ER. Getting there had been an exercise in devious pathways and shortcuts. House cut through department lounges, waiting rooms, connecting hallways, and even in one side of the men's ground-floor locker room and out the other. They emerged into the corridor across from one of the trauma rooms and swung right toward admitting. When they arrived at the nurses' station, however, Foreman took notice that House walked up to the counter and leaned across it, a study in nonchalance that effectively took all his weight off the crippled leg. He did not let on that he'd noticed, but moved in close to House's weaker right side and leaned across the counter also.

There were two RNs in attendance, one of them the petite girlfriend of night Nursing Staff Supervisor, Billy Travis. The other one was her boss, Maria Colby, Daytime ER Nursing Supervisor. Colby's dark hair was pulled back in a braid. She was pug-nosed in an attractive, brown-eyed, thirty-something way. The smallish darker-skinned woman grinned and walked up to Gregory House, tapped a slender index finger on the tip of his nose and whispered, "How ya doin', Sexy?"

Gregg hung his head and looked the other way for a moment, half embarrassed, while Foreman did a double-take and hastily slid one step to the right. "Doin' okay, pretty woman," Gregg said finally. "When are you and Billy gonna stop by for a beer?"

"Oh, any day now," she told him with a grin. "And what can I do for you gentlemen?" Nancy Franklin was short, with tiny features and ebony hair curled close to her scalp. She was as small as Billy Travis was huge. "You wouldn't both be over here to take a look at our mystery man, would you?"

From the puzzled looks on both their faces, Nancy realized they had no idea what she was talking about. "Uh oh … I think you need to talk to Maria. She and one of the attendings cleaned him up and did an evaluation." She beckoned to the senior nurse in colorful scrubs doing paper work at the desk. Colby looked up as Nancy summoned her. She walked over and stood behind the counter with Nancy at her left.

"His name seems to be 'Roger'," Maria Colby said, placing her pencil on the counter and spinning it with her fingers. "Hi, Dr. House … Dr. Foreman. That's all he remembers … just 'Roger' … so I'm not sure if it's his real name, or just some handle hung on him by one of his street buddies. He hasn't told us for sure, but I'm almost certain he's homeless. How he's managed to survive in this freezing weather, I'll never know, but he has. He was really in rough shape when the ambulance brought him in. Half frozen, filthy dirty, unshaven, skin rash, matted hair, finger and toenails out of control. He was weak, unable to stand up by himself. Looked like he hadn't had a bath in a year, and we had to cut most of his clothes off. Threw everything away, including his shoes. His feet are raw from they way they rubbed him. He says he hurts all over. He has muscle stiffness, and says it's painful to move his arms and legs. Dr. Fetterolf ordered up some tests … CT, MRI, Ultra-Sound … you know … the whole spectrum. Want to have a look?"

House and Foreman both nodded and pushed off from the counter as Colby came around. She led them down the long hallway to the treatment cubicles, only a few of which were in use at this hour, until they had gone about halfway through the narrow passage between the little box-like spaces. "Fetterolf thinks he has polio?" House asked.

"Yeah," Colby answered. "Could be, but it's still debatable."

They pulled the curtain aside and walked in. The young man lay stretched out as she had left him about a half hour before, and he appeared to be asleep. Single-file, they circled his gurney and stood looking. There was no room to do it any other way.

Roger woke up as Foreman bent over, removing a penlight from his breast pocket, preparing to gauge pupil reactions. There was a sharp intake of breath and the thin body curled upon itself in startled agitation. "Easy there," Foreman said. "It's okay. I just need to check you out a bit."

The dark eyes flitted from one person to another, and then another, but he did not withdraw further. Colby walked close to his head and touched his cheek with her fingers. He reached up and wrapped his own fingers lightly around her wrist. "It's okay, Roger," she said. "They want to help you … find out what's wrong. You can trust them. This," she said pointing to Gregg, "is Dr. Gregory House. And this …" Indicating the man standing with his little flashlight pointing its beam toward the ceiling, "is Dr. Eric Foreman."

Roger nodded warily in the direction of each man, focusing for an extended moment on House's awkwardly bent leg and his cane, and bristling at the fact that he was being stared at like a bug under a microscope. He then let go of Maria Colby's wrist and reached his hand upward to pinch the bridge of his nose in a blatantly nervous manner. He did not speak, but allowed Foreman to continue his examination.

Across the room, Gregg House bit down on his bottom lip, flinched in discomfort and looked for somewhere to sit down. The pain in his leg was accelerating and he needed to be off it. At the moment, he was unable to focus on anything else. There was nothing nearby, however, which could readily accommodate him, and he began to hop clumsily in order to lessen the weight it had to support. He limped closer to the gurney and leaned on it for a moment, hands pressing hard on the edge, letting his cane slide onto his wrist as he did so.

Colby saw his distress and hurried out through the curtain to find him a stool to sit on. For a moment, there was dead silence. Foreman sheathed his penlight and moved in House's direction, and the man on the gurney frowned with compassion and reached out his fingers to touch Gregg's hand where it clenched the edge of the metal frame. "You're hurt," he observed in a small voice.

House frowned, uncomfortable with his disability becoming the center of attention, but at the moment quite unable to do anything about it. He sighed and closed his eyes. "Yes I am …" he said simply.

"I'm sorry. I hate it when someone is in pain the way you are …"

The room became very quiet. House held onto the gurney desperately and gritted his teeth as the pain mounted. He could feel himself becoming lightheaded. "Damn it! I think I'm going to pass out …"

The clatter of wobbly office-chair wheels broke the silence of the moment as Maria Colby rushed through the curtain with the chair from the nurse's station. Gentle hands eased House down into it and he shuddered as his weight came off the leg. His hands went to his thigh, kneading briskly in an effort to quiet the misery.

Roger was sitting up watching, distress marring his sharply chiseled features. Both of his emaciated legs dangled over the edge of his perch, and his body leaned forward, a hand reaching toward the doctor slumped painfully in the old office chair. "Dr. House?"

Gregg didn't answer immediately. He was quite incapable.

Foreman and Colby stood on either side of Gregg, nothing they could do for him at that moment except be there if he needed them. Colby decided to stand by, and if he couldn't recover by himself … then … Demerol!

Roger leaned forward a little more. "Dr. House? … House?"

Gregg looked up quickly, his senses suddenly assaulted with a dawning realization. Profound astonishment transformed his paled features with the ultimate in distractions.

_NO! Can't be!_

He found himself staring intently for the first time into the face of a younger, darker, thinner version of his best friend, James Wilson. Even the timbre of their two voices was chillingly similar:

"_This was the last place I saw him nine years ago. I don't even know if he's alive …" _

This young man was Wilson's brother! Had to be! Had the others noticed the similarity? He thought not. They were both watching _him, _and they did not know Wilson as intimately as he did! He combed all emotion from his face and looked down and away. They must not know until he had a chance to talk to Wilson … _his_ Wilson.

House reached into his jacket pocket for his Vicodin bottle. He was shaking, not all of it from the discomfort in his leg. He tipped two of them into his palm, swallowed them dry. He leaned back in the chair to await relief.

The others were helpless and very quiet as they saw tears glisten at the corners of his eyes and slide onto his face. Both doctors, however, had the wrong idea. The tears were not a result of his leg pain. Rather, they were a catharsis; a cleansing. But they also distracted Foreman and Colby from his startled discovery.

After a time, he sat slowly forward. The Vicodin were doing their job. The pain was easing. Colby and Foreman could relax. But he could not tell them the truth. He had to see Wilson first. He knew he was the only person Wilson had ever told about his brother, and he could never break a confidence with his best friend.

Gregg leaned further forward in the chair and wrapped both hands gingerly about his thigh. He looked up into the concerned face of Roger, the homeless young man, who still stared with acute distress in his face. "It's getting better now. I'm fine."

Two minutes later, his pager went off. He checked the number.

Cuddy!

James had been taken to his room.

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Gregory House lingered anxiously by Wilson's bedside. Evening was slipping silently over the city, and it was quite dark outside the building. Eastern Standard Time had pulled the curtain down on New Jersey by 6:30 p.m., and the hospital's soothing indirect lighting bathed everything from the lobby to the roof-access stairway with a golden glow. Wilson slept peacefully in this semi-private room on the third floor. The empty bed across from him was made up as tight as a basic airman's cot. A horse shoe dropped in the middle of it would probably bounce up and ricochet off the ceiling. The blinds at the room's two windows were shuttered tightly and the area was enveloped in shadow. The tall wheeled table that extended over the opposite side of Wilson's bed held the usual accumulation found in every hospital room in the world. There was the ubiquitous generic box of tissues, a kidney-shaped plastic dish, a plastic glass with accompanying straw encased in a plastic bag, and a tall thin Thermos of ice water.

As Cuddy had assured him earlier, Gregg knew Wilson was doing well. They had stemmed the progression of infection quickly, just before it got to his kidneys and caused more serious problems. James breathed easier, looking a little pale, a little tired, but not pained. He was free of all apparatus except the pulse-ox on his right index finger and an intravenous feed taped firmly into place on the back of his left hand. His hand rested in a curled position on his stomach, and to Gregg it looked quite uncomfortable. They'd changed him into one of their skimpy hospital gowns and then covered him modestly to the waist with a sheet. Every hospital he'd ever visited did that, House thought. It seemed as contrived as a statement of competency; a policy instituted with great pride and maintained by armed guards and a proof of dedicated consistency.

_HAH!_

Hospital irony! It made him smile. Hospitals were full of ironies!

Right now, House was feeling somewhat squirmy, unsettled and needy. He didn't like that about himself, but the feeling would not leave. In some ways this sensation rivaled the constant burning and deep muscular ache in his leg. And it was just as annoying. As he sat in the room's visitor's chair looking in concern into his best friend's face, the compulsion to reach up and touch him seemed to grow with each passing minute. Tactile contact was sometimes merely a moment's whim. At other times, like now, it became so insistent that the feeling of need wanted to lift his hand of its own volition to make contact and prove once and for all that James was indeed, still there. And who knew … the laying on of hands might benefit Wilson in his dream world somehow, just as it would reassure Gregg House within his own illusory, introspective world: his dark, sore, deeply suppressed soul.

House gave in. His fingers crept onto the edge of the bed and touched the warm hand where the line for the pulse-ox disappeared beneath the sheet. Wilson's own fingers moved slightly, giving mute testimony to his unconscious awareness of the presence he could not yet define. House's hand lingered, feeling the reality of that other life which had, over time, become so important to him. His disturbing case of the jitters dissipated rapidly with the contact, and his body relaxed to the point that his chin fell to his chest in relief, and he exhaled a sigh which began deep in the soles of his feet. He knew he could now be content to wait until Wilson awoke naturally and discovered him there.

Meanwhile, there was still Roger …

House's mind churned with scenarios. He would break the news to his friend about his brother's presence here in a fashion that would not unduly upset James.

_Oh yeah? How? Who the hell put you in charge of 'breaking-the-news-gently'?_

House had never pretended to be a huggy-type man. Despite his off-the-scale intelligence and innate gift concerning anything medical, he had no talent whatsoever where bedside manner was concerned. He knew he would muddle through this astounding announcement somehow, but his issues with sensitivity would invariably throw him for a loop and agitate poor Wilson to the point of apoplexy. He wished he could palm off the responsibility for this one on one of the Ducklings. It seemed like a job made to order for Cameron and her "Goody Two-Shoes" need to cure the world of all ills. The only thing wrong with that was her schoolgirl compassion which would probably screw it up worse than he would himself with caustic remarks about skinny little Jewish fags. Besides, Cameron was totally unaware of the story of Wilson's brother. House decided it needed to remain that way unless Wilson gave his consent. Cameron had trouble keeping her mouth shut.

If Roger eventually recovered and declared his intent to return to society, that was one thing. If he ended up going back on the streets and breaking his brother's heart further, then it was quite another. Gregg remained unsettled about the whole scenario, but it was a responsibility he had to shoulder by himself and in his own way. However it played out, it would be sobering.

House settled back into the visitor's chair to await developments. Wilson slept blissfully close by his side, and the pain in his leg had scaled back to tolerable levels until time for his next medication. He had dropped his cane and a clipboard with pages of Roger's case report on the floor at his feet when he'd come into this room and levered himself down. Now he picked up both and placed them in his lap. It was too dim in this corner to read, so he took his cane by the handle and reached up with it to press the switch of one of the little directional lights in the panel over Wilson's head. It came on with a soft click and he used the cane's rubber tip to swivel it to a point where the beam illuminated the top page of the evaluation report on "Roger Whoever". Gregg House began to read.

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Two hours previously:

When House and Foreman left Maria Colby in the ER, House had gone directly back to his office as quickly as his throbbing leg could carry him. Foreman followed closely with a worried look on his face, but House managed to shake him off by pointing him in the direction of the labs and asking for a detailed evaluation of Roger as soon as he could work one up. Foreman had done so, however reluctantly, suggesting to his boss that he go to his office quickly and … "rest". He did not dare be more explicit than that. House had simply given him a withering look and hurried off in the opposite direction.

Gregg sat in front of his computer screen staring at the medical history of one: Philip R. Wilson, born 3 Jan 71, at Mercer Medical Center, Trenton, New Jersey, U. S. A.

Being in the unique position of having impeccable credentials as a renowned diagnostician certainly had its advantages, House thought smugly. His tenure and standings within the AMA gave him carte blanche to pull up the confidential medical files of almost anyone in the United States. It had taken him approximately three minutes to find all the information he needed. What he'd found, however, was disturbing. The young man in the emergency room was indeed Wilson's brother, and his middle name actually was … "Roger". As a child, he had been given all the appropriate inoculations, dental checkups, vision checks, physical examinations required by the state of New Jersey. (He wore glasses, but they were not in evidence when House had spoken to him. He would have to ask Colby). The young Master Wilson was physically and mentally sound up until the age of nine, when for some unknown reason, he had come down with what was eventually diagnosed as infantile paralysis.

House frowned and stared at this unsettling information in surprise.

_WHOA! What the hell … ?_

Wilson had never mentioned this!

House read further.

In late 1980, the boy had presented with all the classic symptoms of a disease which had, supposedly, been eradicated some twenty-odd years before. At that time, children were given the OPV or IPV vaccine for immunity. Philip (Roger) had received the OPV, as had the others in his class of fourth graders. Two months later he had fallen ill with fever, headache, fatigue, and general muscle weakness in his legs. Over a span of the next few weeks, that weakness progressed steadily until he was unable to walk. This necessitated the use of braces and crutches and physical therapy and bed rest. He did his fifth grade studies from his bedroom with a tutor. He became lethargic and silent. His appetite diminished and his zest for life simply disappeared.

It was believed that his exposure to the virus came from playing in a sand pit near a waste dump where children made sand pies and played "Diner", pretending to eat them with plastic spoons. It was assumed that Philip had gotten carried away and actually eaten some of the contaminated soil, perhaps on a dare. He was the only one of his group of four children who actually got sick. His doctors agreed that he had spinal polio, characterized by asymmetric paralysis involving the legs. After the passage of seven months he began to get better again, regaining function very gradually until his body returned to near-normal status. Even after full recovery, however, Philip (Roger) continued to experience weakness in his legs. He walked with a slight limp after that.

Philip graduated from high school in 1989 and college in 1993. He was intelligent, but he had become withdrawn, having no interest in anything but hanging with friends. His poor vision was corrected with lenses, but he seldom wore them. He let his dark hair grow to unflattering lengths and began staying away from home for longer and longer spans of time, and never did he allow anyone to know where he went or with whom he associated. Vague suspicions about his sexuality began to arise. He did not speak of it.

One night he was walking along the street with his two older brothers when he heard his name called from a distance. He hurried off, smiling, saying he would return shortly. That was the last time his family saw him. It was Thanksgiving night, 1996.

Roger had now been missing for nearly ten years.

House sighed, feeling a twinge of vague regret. He engaged his computer's printer and made a hard copy of the medical history, then deleted the information from his screen. This was private. He folded the printout twice and put it in the same pocket that held his Vicodin bottle.

And while he was thinking about it …

He nicked the lid and dumped two pills into his hand. Tipped his head, took them dry. His leg was calm at the moment. It would be nice to keep it that way. House leaned back in his chair and lifted a fistful of pant leg until his bad leg was propped on the desktop. Followed it quickly with the other one and crossed the good one over the bad. He could probably stay in this position fifteen minutes or so before he would have to move it to another location.

He wondered what was taking Foreman so long in the labs, looking over the MRI and CT results … studying the ultrasound. Leaving no stone unturned in his diagnosis, because House would never let him live it down if he screwed up. House smiled to himself thinking about it. It didn't really matter if Foreman got the findings right or not. He already knew what was wrong with the kid … had known, in fact, ever since he'd read the first two paragraphs of the medical history.

Gregg looked around on his desk for something with which to occupy himself until he got the report in his hands to pour over the diagnosis and finally force himself to approach Wilson with it. Maria Colby called him with young Wilson's room assignment. He was in 220. House inquired after Roger's glasses, but Maria told him there had been none on his person when he'd been brought in. He thanked her briefly and hung up. Now he waited for Foreman to reappear with the evaluations. Wilson should be waking up soon, and he needed to be there. His eyes settled on the ubiquitous red tennis ball. He reached for it and began to turn it 'round and 'round in his hands.

His phone rang again. It was Foreman. "Got it!" the neurologist said.

House heaved a huge sigh and put the tennis ball back into its little dish. He lifted his legs down until both feet were on the floor. The vibration of the desk brought up his screen saver and it began to scroll across the computer screen.

_Beach Babes! Hoo-yaw!_

"Meet me in Wilson's room! 312 …" He headed for the elevator which would take him back to the third floor.

Foreman dropped off his lab evaluations and test results with House in Wilson's room, made some flimsy excuse and turned tail. Quickly! House found himself chuckling a little about that.

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49


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 "Wilson's Room"

Back to the present:

It was quiet as a tomb on third floor east. Almost. Only the intermittent papery rustle from slow-turning pages broke the silence. Still no one in the second bed. A nurse stuck her head in and looked around, but withdrew quickly like a startled turtle into its shell when she saw who was sitting in the visitor's chair. No one asks for grief on purpose!

House turned the pages one by one, reading and confirming the evaluations Foreman had worked out on their patient, Philip R. Wilson. "Roger". Foreman's diagnosis was right on the money. House had had the problem figured out two hours earlier, but he had to give his minion due credit. Foreman's work had been thorough and accurate. House wondered what method Foreman might have employed that had brought him to this conclusion. He was becoming a formidable and competent doctor, although he would never hear that from House!

Carefully, Gregg shifted his position in the chair, moving his shoulders slightly to the left in order to hold the clipboard directly under the beam of light. It was getting darker, evening turning into night, and the hospital was quieting down. Visiting hours were just over, and only a few straggling footfalls still echoed in the corridor. House looked up and around, working the kinks out of his neck and letting his gaze fall with affection on the sleeping man on the bed. Wilson looked peaceful, his face smooth and unlined, his mouth relaxed and his baby fine hair falling about his head like a halo. Again! House had noticed this outward sign of nature's whimsy before. He smiled at the ceiling for no reason for a few seconds, worked the last few kinks out of his neck, shifted his behind on the chair a tad, and returned to his perusal of the medical evaluation.

House now knew Roger was suffering from PPS: Post Polio Syndrome. He'd had the disease as a child, but had recovered and his life had gone on almost normally from there. But now as an adult, the virus had struck again, causing the degeneration of individual nerve terminals in the motor units that remained after the initial illness. The virus had taken down specific neurons in the brainstem and the anterior horn cells of the spinal cord. Years of wear and tear on the already damaged cells had broken them down and caused serious muscle weakness and further deterioration. Independent studies showed that the weakness of PPS is a slowly progressing condition marked by periods of stability followed by new declines in the ability to carry out day to day activities.

Roger would need to be introduced to slow, easy exercises to increase his muscle strength. House decided to start him on an intravenous immunoglobin to reduce pain and increase his endurance. He would need to be monitored closely for awhile, but he could probably achieve another recovery if he worked at it. A sea change in lifestyle would also be absolutely necessary, and House wondered what Roger would think about that. He would definitely need a wheelchair and crutches for awhile, and perhaps graduate to a cane as he progressed. Whether he would ever walk "normally" again was as iffy as the flip of a coin.

House lowered the clipboard back to the floor and shifted in the chair one more time. He would soon need to get up and move about. His leg was waking up and preparing to throw a tantrum. He dug for a Vicodin and swallowed it quickly. On the bed, Wilson showed signs of waking also.

Gregg grasped his cane and flicked off the little light on the panel. If Wilson moved more than a few inches to the right, the beam would be directly in his eyes. The light winked off and House leaned forward, flinching slightly at the pull of damaged muscles. On the bed, Wilson's head lolled to the left, then back to the right, and the movement brought with it a return to consciousness as his brown eyes opened, slowly focused and he looked around. To his immediate right was that familiar dark tousled head leaning near him, and a pair of tired blue eyes and a thin mouth smiling foolishly.

Wilson smiled back. "Hey, House …" His voice was cracked and scratchy.

House felt uncharacteristically giddy. His friend was back. "Hey yourself, Buckaroo!" He held up a hand in front of his face and wiggled the fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Wilson rolled his eyes.

_Ahhh … he's fine!_

"All of them."

"Can't you give your doctor a straight answer?" House was on his feet now, a little unsteady without his cane, but circling to the other side of the bed to scoop up the sterile water glass from the wheeled table and tear off its plastic bag.

Wilson watched him as he thumbed the bag in the general direction of a lined waste basket, picked up the Thermos and poured half a glass of cold water. "And why is it important for me to give you a straight answer? I so seldom get one from you."

House leaned over the bed and aimed the straw in the approximate location of his friend's lips. "Because you're in the hospital bed and I'm not … that's why. Here … drink!"

"Crank the damn bed up first, will you? The last time I drank anything lying down, I was too damned drunk to sit up."

House grinned. "Yeah, I remember …" He pulled the control box away from where it lay crammed against the mattress and pushed the "up" button, watching as it slowly tilted the head of the bed all the way to a sitting position.

Wilson stretched his neck to one side, then the other, loosening it up. He put the straw in his mouth, took a few swallows and reached to pluck the glass from House's hand. Their fingers touched fractionally and the pulse-ox bumped Gregg's middle finger. Their eyes met above the contact. "How are you doing, House?" Wilson asked softly. "Come back over here and sit down before you fall down."

House squinted one eye and wrinkled his nose in clownish disdain, but hobbled back around the bed and lowered himself again into the visitor's chair. "Even in a hospital bed you can't let it go, can you? Still looking out for the cripple …"

"Somebody has to. You won't!" Wilson leaned forward and placed the water glass back on the table. He pulled the pulse-ox off his finger and dropped it onto the sheet. "Call Cuddy, will you? Tell her I want out of here. I feel fine, and it's senseless for me to take up bed space when I don't need it. You can get this IV out of my hand too, if you want." The pulse box alarm began to beep annoyingly with nothing attached to it.

House cocked his head and looked up doubtfully from beneath shaggy brows. "Who died and left you boss?" He followed the electrical line with his fingers and pulled out the plug with a backward flip that reminded Wilson of a kid with a worn-out casting rod.

"Nobody. I'm my own boss."

"Not today you're not. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Wilson looked around, only now beginning to discover it was no longer daylight, and it had been hours since he'd ended up flat on his back. His voice lowered in a moment's embarrassment at the realization. "How long have I been out?"

"It's almost nine at night, so you've just slept around the clock. We pumped you full of enough antibiotics to choke a mule, and you're stuck here until morning. At least. My call! You can't pin it on Cuddy. Even Party Pants has a life. She went home hours ago."

Wilson frowned. "Who?"

"Never mind. Just get it through your head that you're not going anywhere until at least tomorrow morning! You had a urinary tract infection, and it just missed involving your kidneys. So the IV stays in and you get to eat hospital baby food and Jello!"

Wilson sighed and leaned back again. "Oh joy. Ampicillin?"

"Uh huh, and I won't even go into what else …" The grin reappeared, and Wilson had a distinct feeling he didn't want to know.

"I need to go to the john," he announced.

"That's a good thing … but I'm pretty sure you're going to need my help."

Wilson made a wry face and glared without saying anything. The look on his face was enough to get his thoughts across very clearly.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," House complained, although he didn't argue further. He reached over and waggled his fingers in Wilson's face. "Hand me the control box."

"Why?"

"So I can call a nurse to get in here and go along with you, pecker head! If you won't let me go along, fine, but you're not walking over there by yourself. One of the LPNs can push your IV pole for you and hold your cute little nightie closed over your cute little bare behind … you'll have enough to worry about just getting your own sorry ass in there and plunked down on the hole!"

Wilson crunched up his face, but handed the unit across to House's grasp reluctantly. "Jeez! You make it sound so attractive! And who says I need to plunk down on the hole?"

House smiled sadly. "You're forgetting how much mileage I've had in hospital beds. Be happy you don't have to screw around getting out of a wheelchair to take a dump … or fumble around with crutches just to get your fly unzipped." He quieted suddenly, his face losing its levity; going serious. He punched the call button.

Wilson's brown eyes went liquid and his head dropped. "Aww … House … don't …"

Gregg shook his head quickly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make it a sob story."

An LPN in light blue scrubs appeared at the door and stuck his head inside. "Everything okay in here?" he asked with a questioning look around.

"Could you escort Dr. Wilson to the rest room? He doesn't trust me!"

The man strode to the bed and stood at Wilson's side as he prepared to get up. "Sure, Dr. House," he said. "Feeling better, Dr. Wilson?"

James nodded. "Much. Thanks, Joe." He turned his body and swung both legs over the edge. The LPN picked up a pair of paper slippers and fitted them onto Wilson's feet. From beneath the bed, he pulled a light four-footed stool and placed it at the bedside.

"Hang onto my shoulder and step down. Easy … Do you feel light headed?"

Wilson shook his head. "No. Just grab the IV pole, will you? I'm okay."

Still sitting nervously in the visitor's chair, Gregg House watched Wilson's first foray to the rest room. If his friend was able to urinate normally, then he was certainly well on his way to recovery. If not … He did not want to think about that. He watched the slow procession to the other side of the room to the rest room alcove, and had to snicker to himself as Joe Wallace, the diminutive LPN, did indeed pinch the loose ends of the hospital gown closed over James Wilson's skinny bare butt.

When the door hissed shut behind them, House pushed himself to his feet after grabbing his cane off the floor, and began to circle the room. The temper tantrum his leg had begun awhile ago was now in full force and he could not sit still. He figured he had about two minutes to limber up before they came back out of the bathroom and caught him giving in to discomfort. He debated whether or not to take another pill, knowing it was much too soon. If he didn't, the pain would certainly betray him because Wilson was thoroughly familiar with all his methods of distraction when the pain cranked up. He was tired and a little shaky from not eating all day, and the problem he faced in revealing the discovery of Wilson's younger brother gnawed at him and worried him because he did not want to screw it up.

House paused beside the empty bed across from Wilson's, and then shifted his weight to the left. He let his right knee go slack until the toe of his sneaker was barely touching the floor. He planted the cane at his right hip and his left hand squarely on the frame of the bed and stood that way with his chin dipped almost to his chest. The action stretched the muscles at the back of his neck and in his shoulders and he felt a little better.

By the time Joe Wallace escorted Wilson back out of the bathroom, Gregg had returned to the visitor's chair, still sucking on a fresh Vicodin and twirling his cane in his right hand. His leg had eased up, and his back and shoulders were ready for another round.

Wilson's face held a look of triumph and he was walking a little straighter. He and Joe were chuckling at some private joke as they moved closer to the side of the bed. Joe placed the IV pole where it belonged and assisted Wilson back up onto his perch. In accordance with his training, Joe fluffed the pillow and when Wilson was settled again, he pulled the sheet precisely to waist level and turned it down one turn. Neatly. Gregg hid a snicker behind the index and middle fingers of his left hand. Wilson looked at him quizzically, but House ignored him.

After Joe had left, Wilson looked at his friend and muttered, "… and I _didn't_ have to 'plunk down on the hole', in case anyone is interested."

House snorted into his hand and let his cane drop to the floor. "_'Anyone'_ … is not!"

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Gregg called down to the coffee shop near the lobby and asked for coffee and donuts for himself; ginger ale and a cup of pudding for Wilson. He was ravenous, and would much rather scarf some pizza or Chinese. Wilson, however, was not ready for those. When the order arrived they made jokes about steak and potatoes, but made quick work of the meager fare.

As the night progressed, Wilson noticed that Gregg House was beginning to retreat more and more into reticence, sitting with eyes darting furtively, face downcast. Wilson misunderstood the reason for his friend's sudden change in demeanor. After too many minutes of awkward silence, he could let it alone no longer. "House?"

The blue eyes lifted reluctantly from beneath hooded lids. Gregg did not speak, just sat and studied his friend's face for a lingering moment before lifting his chin in a silent questioning motion.

Wilson looked worried. "What's wrong? Why the hell don't you go back to my office and get some sleep! You're so tired it scares me, and I can see it in your eyes that you're really hurting! I'm fine, and it's not as though you need to baby-sit me through the night …"

"It's not that." His voice was so low that Wilson had to strain to hear him.

"Then …what?"

Gregg's hand went to his face, scrubbing through the rough expanse of beard. He'd dreaded this moment all day, but now it was here and there could be no more stalling. At last he heaved a deep breath and met James' eyes steadily with his own.

_Time to fish or cut bait …_

"Tell me about Philip," he said, purposely keeping his voice low.

Wilson frowned. "What?"

"Tell me about Philip. Roger. Please."

Wilson's eyes widened to saucers at the same moment his mouth dropped open. "Do you mean … as in … my brother? How do you know about Roger? I never mentioned his name to anyone … not even you. What about him? Tell me why you want to know! Have you heard something about him? … _of_ him?" Wilson's breathing became audible.

"_House?"_

Gregg looked up and saw the raw emotion spark the brown eyes; listened to the ragged edge that came into his friend's voice. He watched tears spring to the surface and overflow. He was not sure he could handle this. He heaved himself out of the chair and hobbled over to the bed. Then Wilson was in his embrace and they were grasping each other fiercely.

"He's here, Jimmy … Roger, your brother … is here."

"'Here?' You mean … in this hospital?"

"Yeah."

"But how? Are you sure it's Roger? Is he all right? Did he ask for me? House! Tell me!"

"He came in by ambulance early this morning. Cuddy and the ducks were going over his case file when you keeled over. You had no way of knowing, and they still have no idea who he is. He's not all right, but with some care and a few helpings of roast beef, corn on the cob and mashed potatoes, he should be much better."

"Can I go to him? Now? And how do you know for certain it's my brother? How did he know where I am?" The questions were coming faster than House could answer them.

"Whoa … whoa … whoa … If you slow down, I'll tell you all I know … and no, you can't go see him tonight. He's in the ward on the second floor … and they have him sedated." House stumbled on his feet suddenly, and if the two of them hadn't been holding each other so tightly, he might have gone down in a heap beside the bed.

Wilson made a one-handed grab for Gregg's shoulder, dragging his needle-imprisoned hand awkwardly across the surface of the bed behind him. Together they steadied each other. "House! Oh God, I'm so sorry … your leg …" He slid around in the bed, pulling his IV line out of the way, wincing slightly. "Can you get up on the bed beside me? Are you able? Oh God, are you all right? I need you with me … I need you to hold me … and I need to know about Roger …" Wilson's voice was breaking again and House knew he had not yet fit his mind around the news he'd just received.

House fumbled for the stool beneath the bed. He drew it out, steadied himself with both hands on the mattress and levered his body upward and onto it. From there it was easier to turn and fall back on the pillows beside Wilson. His leg was still bothersome, but he ignored it with the effort to achieve a more successful end result. He clenched his teeth and pressed both hands down on the thigh, slowly easing its throb and stemming the beginnings of muscle spasm.

Wilson watched helplessly. He could do little as long as the IV dragged at his hand. When House finally straightened, James leaned closer until they sat shoulder to shoulder on the bed. House stretched out his arm and laid it across Wilson's back, pulling the shorter man into a shy embrace. At one time, the gesture would have been awkward and impossible for him. Gregg could not even have considered it. But now it was more familiar and a little easier. Their close proximity was almost as good as an extra dose of Vicodin, and both men relaxed into it. House cleared his throat noisily.

"Now as I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted … what _was_ I saying?"

Wilson followed his friend's lead, understanding Gregg's need to make jokes in the wake of any incident with his leg. "Wasn't it something about my little brother whom I have not seen or heard from in almost ten years … ?"

"Yeah … well … not only did you never tell me his name, but you didn't tell me he had polio when he was a kid either."

"It never came up. We only talked about him briefly the night Victoria died … and then we never spoke of him again. I thought he was probably dead."

"He's very much alive. He's homeless. He's suffering from malnutrition and exposure. And he has PPS. He can't walk."

"Post Polio Syndrome? That's when the virus comes back in an adult who had polio as a child. That's so rare these days. How hard did it hit him? Can you tell? And how did you figure out he was my brother? Does everyone know?"

"Slow down, Buckaroo!" House admonished. "One question at a time." Gregg clasped Wilson's shoulder a little tighter in reassurance, knowing quite suddenly that he wanted to talk about Philip … Roger … wanted it very much, and that was because it would please Wilson and give him comfort for his soul. Gregg wanted to do this for his friend; for this _more_ than friend. He took a deep breath and whistled it out between his teeth, shaking off some of the bone-deep fatigue that had been settling into his body.

"I talked to Maria Colby in ER. He came in down there by police ambulance after he fainted trying to cross the street downtown. They bathed him, cleaned him up and started him on IVs and nutrients. When Foreman and I went in to see him, he had no idea who he was or how he got there. All he knew was that his friends called him 'Roger'. He was in a lot of pain. Knees, hips, back …

"The minute I saw him, I knew who he was. Nobody else has seen it yet, but they probably will before long. The two of you have the same eyes, same shape to your noses and the same thick hair. I saw Colby looking at him a little puzzled from time to time, but I don't think she's put it together yet. She will though. It went right over Foreman's head, but then he doesn't look for things like that. To him, all us 'whities look alike! Roger is just another 'John Doe' … or 'Roger Doe' as the case may be."

Wilson looked wide-eyed into House's face, scandalized, but House paid no attention. James' eyes were still moist and red. Gregg reached his hand to the wheeled table and pulled a tissue out of the box to hand it across. "Here," he said. "For cryin' out loud, wipe your snotty nose!"

Wilson took the tissues and performed the requested action. He was smiling through his tears in spite of himself. "You know, House, when you latch onto something, you tend to hang on like a bulldog."

House grinned with relief to see his friend feeling better. "Yeah, I know … Foreman's going to get me for that one if I ever let him find out about it. I just didn't want you wiping snot all over my shirt."

"Eww …" Wilson leaned his head onto House's shoulder and sniffed. "How did you find out Rodge had polio when he was a kid?"'

"'Rodge', huh?"

"Yeah. I'm the only one who ever called him Roger. The rest of the family always called him Philip. So did his friends from the time he was little. Actually, it's kind of nice that he still thinks of himself as Roger. So how … ?"

"… did I know he had polio? Right. Well, I went to one of the 'Dot Gov' websites, pulled up all the Wilson Family medical records … and 'Bingo'! Guess what! There you all were … lined up like tin cans on a fence row for me to take pot-shots."

"You used your AMA influence to pull up private med records?"

"Yeah. So what? I do it all the time. It gave me all the information I needed to find out what was wrong with Roger … I would have figured it out eventually, even if they hadn't given him that extensive battery of tests. Now he's being treated, and if he has the balls to stick with it, I think they can get him on his feet again. He may have to join my 'fucked-up' club and use a cane the rest of his life, but he should be able to shake the wheelchair and crutches within a couple of months." Gregg's voice stopped abruptly when he realized Wilson was weeping silently again.

House reached into his jacket pocket and rummaged around for a moment, finally drew out the folded sheets of hard copy he'd shoved in there earlier in the day: Roger's confidential medical report. He unfolded the papers and handed them across to Wilson, watching his friend's face for reactions. Wilson took the papers with wide-eyed astonishment. He wiped his eyes on the shoulder of his hospital gown and scanned the report carefully; folded it again and handed it back. "Keep it for me, will you?"

"Sure," House replied, and stuffed the report back into his jacket pocket. He tightened his arm around the narrow shoulders for the second time, feeling fiercely protective. "Lot of stuff to swallow right after waking up in a hospital bed, isn't it?"

Wilson nodded against him. "Yeah. Didn't mean to blubber … but I can hardly wait to see him. I wonder if he'll recognize me. Does the family know?"

"Sorry … but he probably won't know you. He's doesn't even know who he is … or what he is, or where he comes from. He doesn't even seem to care. Right now I 'm sure I'm the only one so far who knows that … and I'm not tellin'. I think that spreading the word is pretty much up to you. Besides, Cuddy doesn't know yet. Nor do the ducklings. It's kind of private information, and I'll keep it that way 'til you're ready to tell people … if they don't figure it out for themselves before then. You two do resemble one another a lot … at least to someone who knows how to look. Besides, I'm one up on everybody else. I'm the only one you told that he even existed …"

"Oh God, House … I don't deserve to have a friend like you …"

House cleared his throat and wrinkled his nose. "Humnph!" He snorted. "Well yeah … that's true. You _don't_ deserve me! Why the hell do you think I steal your lunch off your plate … make you buy the beer and the pizza and the Chinese?

"Why do you think I make you haul my ass around in your car? And why do you think I insist that you keep checking up on the cripple, and ask me how I'm feeling at least fifty times a day?

"Well …. Phfffft! Guess what? I think I can probably make you keep paying for not deserving me for the rest of your natural life!"

Wilson rolled his eyes.

They laughed together for the first time in many hours.

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59


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 "Billy Arrives"

It was after midnight when Gregg and his friend finally folded things up and called it a day. When shifts changed at 11:00 p.m., a shuffle of feet at the doorway a little after the hour, and the deep clearing of a male throat announced the arrival of a very welcome presence in Wilson's room.

Gregg looked up from where he still sat on the bed beside Wilson, and snorted at the dark image watching from the doorframe. "Sneaky bastard!" he accused. "Stop lurking! Get your big black ass in here and say 'hello' to your honky friends!" At his side, James Wilson looked up groggily from where his head rested against House's shoulder.

Billy Travis, black as midnight and built like a Sherman tank, laughed in his deep baritone voice and ambled across the floor in a manner not unlike the menacing vehicle he resembled. "Howdy boys," he said with a grin. "'Honky friends' is right! I never know where the hell I'm gonna find you two little white doofuses holed up together, do I?" He approached the bed and laid gentle paws on tired shoulders, and caressed knitted brows with the backs of powerful fingers. "Nurse Ratchet out there tells me you boys had a busy day. Your leg bothering you again Boss? And Jimmy … have you peed yet without feeling like there's broken glass coming out of your pecker?"

They both glared at him and then answered at the same time:

"I'm fine."

"I peed hours ago."

"Stock answers from the heroes of the century," Travis grumbled. "Don't know why I bother with you two. I might as well walk up to a brick wall and ask it the same questions." Billy held up a digital thermometer with a fresh sleeve on it. "Who's first?"

One at a time, he took their temps while they exchanged exasperated glances and stoically allowed the indignities of being treated like ten-year-olds. He took House's pulse first, then Wilson's, half concentrating on the face of his digital watch and half on their impotent stares that burned invisible holes in the opposite wall.

Their temperatures were normal … or at least close enough to be acceptable. Their pulse rates ticked away calmly within the right parameters, so Billy eyed both men with a patient stare of ultimatum. "I know how you boys get a kick out of hanging around together, but it's time to break this little party _up!_"

Travis did not ask permission or apologize for his actions, but leaned down to pick House's cane off the floor and hand it over to him. He then placed both large hands under Gregg's arms and literally lifted him to a safe standing position. Silently he swung Wilson's legs around on the bed and adjusted the IV line. "I'll be back with a new bag in a few minutes," he said as he pulled up the sheet and folded it neatly at Wilson's waistline.

Gregg watched that last action with eyes twinkling smugly, but kept his comments to himself. He planted his cane and took a tentative step. Pain shot up his leg and he eased off it and waited. Billy was facing the bed and Wilson couldn't see through him, so House's painful grimace and indrawn breath passed unnoticed.

They said their goodnights and parted company, knowing that any protest in the face of Billy Travis' absolute authority on this shift would fall on deaf ears and earn an iron stare.

"I'm going to sack out in your office, Wilson, and I'll see you in the morning. Simon Legree here should be willing to sign off to Cuddy so she'll parole you by then." House winked and followed Travis out the door. His leg hurt like hell. He minimized the limp by force of will and left Travis standing at the nurses' station looking after him in dark, suspicious exasperation.

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James Wilson turned his back on the vertical blinds which closed off the front of the room from the corridor. He stretched out his left arm stiffly, the one with the IV in his hand, in order to relieve the discomfort caused by the needle. The insertion site felt as though it was encircled by bands of steel, and there was an annoying amount of pressure built up all around it. It hurt like hell if he moved the wrong way, and it made his entire arm naggingly achy. Billy had replaced his nearly empty IV bag with a fresh one and he was set for the night. So-to-speak. He was positioned on his left side, his hand slack, facing the windows. His knees were drawn up toward his body and he guessed it was about as comfortable as he was going to get. He'd gone to the bathroom again, this time by himself, dragging the IV along behind him with no mishaps. He was sure Cuddy would discharge him in the morning, which would enable him to get away as soon as possible to reassign his patient load and clinic duties to a subordinate. After that he would be free to locate his brother and initiate the visit for which he had been waiting ten long years.

The prospect of seeing Roger again after all this time was a thrill of excitement and fear that reverberated along his nerve endings. He was experiencing tidal waves of frenzied anticipation through his nervous system that would not allow his body to relax. His thoughts kept winding and rewinding like a movie reel full of memories and images, scrolling and popping in his head. It reminded him of antique photo-flash bulbs.

_Roger was alive!_

Roger was here, and they were only a few short hours from seeing each other again. How would he look? Would the passage of ten years be beneficial or detrimental? Would his beautiful, once-powerful body be ravaged by time and the brutal reality of life on the streets? Would his little brother remember him? Would he look up from his bed and recognize the two-years-older sibling he had fought with and conspired with? Would he recognize the brother who had wept into his pillow on so many lonely nights? The brother who had kept an old baseball bat and first baseman's mitt propped in the corner of his bedroom for the day 'Rodge' returned to claim them, but never did?

Roger was very ill, James knew, and there was an uncertainty in his own mind as to their ability to come together and hug each other and fumble around one another inarticulately as brothers so often do. Would they be able to laugh and smile together again and remind each other of some of the old times and the old places and the old friends? Or would the other man cower away from him as though he were a total stranger? Would Roger reach out his arms in welcome, or lie there in pain, too sore to express any physical act of wonder, or manage even a grain of recognition? Were his damaged, emaciated legs paralyzed and unmoving, or could he still manage to get himself into a wheelchair or up on crutches without someone's help?

James Wilson lay shivering with trepidation, unable to quiet his brain or his body to a level that would allow him a decent night's sleep. The feeling was familiar. He had been there before when Gregg House was so ill, and now the fear was back. He felt as though he'd been wading blind through molasses, and that someone had plucked his eyes from his head and rolled them in sand. He turned onto his back and stretched his legs out straight and away from his body. He arched his neck and felt the grip on his shoulder muscles, extending them as far as he could stand it, hoping that to do so would ease some of the tension and bring with it a release from the constant ache that would not allow him to let go.

It didn't work. He'd been afraid of that. There was nothing he could do to make it better. Finally he rolled into a fetal position, tighter than before, and let the hot tears of spiking emotion roll down his face and penetrate deeply into the hollow his head had created in the pillow. He was frightened, and he could feel the threat of his worst fear beginning to return and wrack his body with indecision.

"_Smoke on the Wind". _ Suddenly he wanted to flee.

Gregg … Roger … Thomas … Dad … Mom … Ruthann … Melanie … Julie …

Of those who had dared love him in the past, and those who loved him now: he was well on his way to destroying their love. All of it. It was what he did! He was not worthy, and he knew the destruction was about to begin again.

James Wilson buried his face deeper into the pillow and sobbed. "Oh God! Why won't it just let me alone?"

_Help me, House! Smoke is on the wind and it's blowing me the wrong way …_

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The old Kroehler convertible in Wilson's office was comfortable enough, though narrow. House took a final Vicodin and swallowed a bit of water in a flimsy paper cup. It was warm enough in the hospital not to need a blanket, and he arranged himself on his back with an old pillow under his knee and another beneath his head. He had turned Wilson's Bose sound system to an NPR station which was playing symphonies through the night. At the moment he found himself relaxing to the familiar strains of the _Warsaw Concerto_, music he knew by heart and had loved as a kid when those had been days of anger and transition. That was when he'd first discovered there were other choices in music than rock 'n' roll, or ear-shattering human voices screeching with the intensity of fingernails down a blackboard. Those had been the days when he'd begun reading medical texts for pleasure, soulfully experimenting with composition on the piano and delving into the intricacies of foreign languages. His father was a Marine, and he'd become a loner by necessity.

So many things had happened in the intervening years between then and now. For a moment he paused to wonder for the thousandth time: _IF_ he had chosen a different pathway, might he have become someone other than a cripple, a misanthrope and a smarmy bastard? It seemed that no matter how much he philosophized or agonized, or how often, all the highways and byways in his brain always seemed to converge at a single junction. The here and now! Life was what it was and it was his responsibility to see it through and try not to leave too many bodies bloodied and dying in his wake.

The music finished and faded away. A soft female voice announced the next selection.

Suddenly Gregg's brain ground to a halt in its ruminations. The music had changed. Soft acoustic guitar. Segovia. He had heard Wilson play his guitar like that a few times. Muted, it was; finger-tip plucking, soft strains of old melancholy, forsaken and sad. Right then, Wilson showed up in his mind out of the blue. Wilson did that sometimes at odd moments. Gregg's thoughts could be miles away, and Wilson's face would appear like a bright wraith in front of him; or something Wilson had said earlier that made an impression at the time, then faded away, only to come crashing back with some vague reminder that brought his image back into sharp focus. It usually meant they needed to talk. This new image beckoned urgently and he wondered if Wilson was in trouble. The thought alarmed him. He swung his legs off the couch and stood quickly.

"_Help me, House! I'm caught in the wind and it's blowing me the wrong way!" _

House's feet hit the floor running.

Change that to: "Moving fast for a cripple!"

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The hospital was dark now; middle-of-the-night silent. Corridors lit only by low-spectrum ceiling spots and low-wattage bulbs placed at intervals along the baseboards. Restful, sleepy time lighting was in use in the administrative wing as well as the wards.

House moved along close to the wall, touching it with the fingers of his left hand every few strides as an aid to his compromised balance. One of the elevators stood open at the end of the corridor. He stepped inside and hit the button. The doors closed with a rumble, their mechanics a hollow roar in the empty hallways.

Third floor: doors grumbling aside again. It couldn't be helped, but lucky for him, no one seemed to notice. Be cautious now! Travis was on this floor, and would surely be prowling around somewhere. Gregg looked both ways. At the nurse's station, two female heads moved about, one Caucasian, one Hispanic, working on updates and case files. It was quiet. Billy was not there at the moment. House turned the corner and hurried toward Wilson's room. It was always difficult for him to sneak about, and such efforts caused tension he did not need in the depleted muscles of his leg. Quietly, he opened the door and pushed the vertical blinds aside, stepped in and closed it behind him.

Wilson was on the bed, deep in shadow, huddled on his left side with his back to the door. At first Gregg thought he was asleep, and that his own worry had been for nothing. But no! Even from this distance House could see the trembling that shook Wilson's body, and as he drew closer he could hear the muted sounds of a man weeping. He stopped dead, suddenly at a loss to know what to do next. He was not good in situations such as this, and he had no idea what to expect of himself. He should not have come here. He would only make it worse for both of them. He stood still, lost and undecided. James Wilson was in pain, and he certainly knew what Wilson always did when _he_ was in pain. _Always!_

Gregg House tossed down his cane with a muttered curse and hobbled around to the other side of the bed. Then James was against him, pulled into an awkward embrace, and House's powerful arms were gathering him in, stubbled cheeks raking through the heavy mop of hair, fingers locked behind his head, drawing him closer.

"Ah, Jimmy … you've got to cut this out. You're using the Vulcan mind meld on me and if you don't stop it, I'll never get any sleep. Besides, you're shrinking the sheets."

Wilson squirmed within the desperate embrace and looked incredulously into the depths of the fathomless eyes. "House? What are you _doing_ here? How did you know I was screwed up?"

The voice came back soft and melodic, so unlike its owner that the contrast was almost unbelievable. "Like I said … the Vulcan mind meld. I would have heard you from another galaxy. What's wrong? Are you having pain?"

"No, not your kind of pain. I'm just so screwed up, and it hit me all at once."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know … I guess it means I'm scared. Scared of seeing Roger again … scared of messing him up worse than he is. I do that to people, you know. I betray them. I've betrayed everyone I ever loved … who ever loved me. I betray them and walk away from the wreckage."

"Wow! That makes you a pretty powerful person, doesn't it?"

Wilson frowned. "That's my line!" He grumped. "What do you mean?"

He could feel House smiling up against him, and he shivered with the sweet sensation of long fingers tangled in his hair. House continued. "Well, the other day you said you put up with me because you loved me. So … I should be on the lookout for something nasty, 'cause it stands to reason that if you love me, you're soon gonna be out to destroy me. That theory has a few holes, doesn't it?"

"It's happened before, House. There's something _wrong_ with me!"

"There's something wrong with everybody! But in order for you to destroy me, I have to be dumb enough to let you! I don't know what happened between you and your parents, but they seemed like nice people when I met them. So did your brother Tom. I don't know much about your marriages to Mel or Ruthie or Julie … at least the 'behind-closed-doors' part. All I got to see was the 'my-friend-going-down-the-tubes' part. And the little bit that you felt free to share with me. I saw three women virtually suck you dry … and you try to tell me _you_ were the one who destroyed _them_? Get real! Your choices in women suck. You should get a pony. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

"House … thanks for the pat on the back, but I feel so shitty right now."

"I know. You're scared about tomorrow … actually it's 'today' now ... and you're torn both ways about Roger. That's not too far south of real. He's your brother, for God's sake! Actually, you need to look at the kid as a second chance. He's a blank slate, an open book. He's very ill, and he's gonna have some difficulty walking again. But you have an opportunity to just spend time with him … and help him remember you and his whole family. You're not gonna destroy him. He's pretty much done that number to himself … just like you think you've done to _your_self. And here you sit, having the monster of all pity parties. It's bullshit though … you know? Your 'smoke on the wind', theory is crap! Smoke thins out and blows away, but you're _here!_ Just like a big pile of hippopotamus poop plopped in the middle of your bed. The wind can't blow away a pile of hippopotamus poop … it just stirs the stink around 'til _everybody_ smells it."

Insanity! Absolute bullshit on top of insanity! House logic! Wilson twisted himself stubbornly away from House's hands and dragged his encumbered hand into his lap. The cover sheet had slipped down on his legs and he pulled it up modestly with his free hand. He took a deep breath and blew it out with a huff. House stood still, leaning both arms on the edge of the mattress, staring at him in curiosity. Wilson stared back, admitting to himself the validity of House's argument, but still smarting with the need for a little more self pity. _Damn you, House!_ That was the one thing about self pity: it had to have something to feed on; a willing witness. If you were unable to draw anyone else into it with you, the effort became moot. It was a game that desperately needed an audience. You couldn't play it alone. James still suffered from a stiff sense of guilt, but House had blown hell out of the premise that there was something else wrong with his head. He looked up into the searching blue eyes and wiped the last of the tears away from his own. "You are a total prick, House … you know?"

House grinned. "You're welcome. I love you too. Can I go back to bed now?"

Wilson shook his head, but the softness in his expression as he watched his friend limp ponderously back around the end of the bed betrayed the look of his half-angry features. "Go!" He said sharply.

House retrieved his cane from where he'd dropped it and headed for the door. "No more mind meld shit tonight, Wilson. I'm _tired_!" He disappeared into the corridor.

Wilson curled back into his former position on the bed. His body was relaxed, and he could allow himself to let the crapshoot go for now …

It wasn't long before he slept.

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The last time Gregg remembered looking at his watch was 2:20 a.m. That was right about the time he got back to Wilson's office. After that his brain stopped spinning and the ache in his leg calmed almost to zero. With the Bose now whispering the gentle melodies of Chopin and Strauss, he lost the struggle with wakefulness and slept with a vengeance.

The first lancets of daylight stole between the vertical blinds at 6:30 a.m. and the ache in his leg returned and told him it wanted its breakfast. Who was he to argue? Stiffly, he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and planted both feet on the floor. Christ! He needed a shower, but he had no change of clothing. There were scrubs in the locker room, however, and paper hospital underwear that he could make do with until he had a chance to get home for a change of clothes. The stuff in his personal locker over there consisted mainly of old sweat pants and ratty looking jackets and old tennis shoes. Nothing he would have chosen to wear during a work day. Nothing he would care to wear to the second floor ward while he accompanied James Wilson as he became reacquainted with his younger brother again for the first time in ten years.

House dipped into his jacket pocket for his Vicodin and popped one of the little white pills. There were only four left, enough for the day if his leg behaved itself. But not enough if his pain levels accelerated to the level they'd reached yesterday. He must remember to ask Wilson for another prescription.

House turned off the Bose before the NPR staff began their normal early morning roundup of world news and editorialized claptrap. Sometimes these people were more than annoying. He loved their music, usually, but from earlier experience, when they started talking, he stopped listening. He grabbed his jacket and his cane and set out for the locker room. None of the medical day shift staff had arrived on the floor yet, and he hurried along the corridor in order to finish up and get himself to Wilson's room, hopefully in time for breakfast. He was famished, and even the crap they served and called "food" would be preferable to another cup of bitter coffee and a stale doughnut. He hoped Wilson was feeling better this morning, and ready to go to his brother.

Gregg stood beneath the water he'd turned up as hot as he could stand it, and soaked in the heat and steam which surrounded him. It felt so good on his damaged leg … and also on his good one which took up so much of the slack the other one couldn't handle. He let the water droplets beat down on the back of his neck and his shoulders, cascade down his spine and run between his ass cheeks until he thought he would actually get his cookies off from the pure sensation of luxury. He soaped himself thoroughly and let the hot water rinse it off him until an eddy of soapy water circled about his feet and began to spread out across the concrete floor on either side of his shower stall. He turned off the water before it turned into a flood, and grabbed his towel off the back of the stall door.

Oh God … he felt a sense of refreshment and a breath of new life. He limped heavily across to the bench against the wall and lowered himself to dry his hair and try to reach to his legs and feet. He let the towel lay across his privates long enough to lean his head against the wall and remain there unmoving until the euphoric feeling began to leave his limbs and he was able to get dressed in the icky green scrubs. Actually, they fit his lanky body perfectly, and a look in the full-length mirror on the door told him he looked at least "official". He rose carefully, crossed to his locker and pulled out his Remington, made sure it was still on "number two", and set about attacking his neck, chin, cheeks and jaw. His beard was still damp and the shaver lugged a little, but he reached the desired effect with a minimum of effort.

He stared at himself critically. Had Wilson been telling the truth when he said he'd lied about saying he looked good unshaven? Or had he simply been getting even for all the money House had swindled out of him? House had paid back every penny months before this … but still! Damn Wilson! Sometimes the man was pure intellect, sometimes pure sarcasm. The sweet, innocent demeanor he presented to the world, however, was pure illusion, gobbled up eagerly by the gullible, but completely dispelled by the man's own confession that he was like "smoke on the wind" … undulating and dissipating and reintegrating like a wraith, and just as elusive.

Yeah. Right! Horseshit! He'd knocked that theory into a cocked hat last night!

_Ah Wilson …_ House thought. He hoped his disjointed verbal meanderings in Wilson's hospital room a few hours before, had resulted in the desired effect. He hoped the stupid stuff that came out of his mouth had at least made Wilson pause in whatever-the-hell was bothering him. His friend was indeed a deep well of murky water that needed to be stirred with a stick about once a month. House felt a strong need to help Wilson overcome his fears because House needed to do his job, and to do his job, he needed Wilson, because Wilson was his barometer on all things "north of normal". And that thought led to the next puzzle: whatever might become of the connection they'd just discovered existed between them? Could that connection possibly turn to something deeper? Or was it doomed to dissipate like Wilson's screwed-up "smoke on the wind"?

What would the reemergence of Wilson's little brother have on their recent discovery? It would be folly to believe there would not be a profound effect. But what? It was a tad bothersome, and House was not comfortable with "bothersome". He had enough of that already in dealing with his disability. He did not need more of it to cope with in a new relationship which, at this point, he was not even sure was fact or fantasy.

He shook himself out of his reverie and snapped off the Remington's power, shoved it back in his locker and slammed the locker closed. He ran his fingers through his haystack of hair and called it good. Now it was time to stop wool-gathering and get on back to Wilson's room … and breakfast. He threw the wet towel in the canvas hamper in the corner, grabbed his cane and pushed the locker room door open.

It was not quite 7:30 a.m.

Cuddy and Chase were already in Wilson's room when House arrived. Wilson was standing beside the disheveled bed, gesturing animatedly with both hands while he talked to them. He was free of the IV, although the site where the needle had gone in was deeply bruised and looked sore to the touch. He had shed the girly hospital gown and was attired in … Oh Christ …green scrubs! House leaned against the doorframe with a grin plastered across his face, and then stepped into the room holding out both arms like a runway model. "Oh look at us!" He giggled gleefully. "The Olsen Twins have come home!"

Cuddy and Chase laughed openly, but Wilson was quiet. Too quiet! His expression said it all. The sparks from his eyes were enough to pop truck tires, and for want of pants pockets in which to shove his hands, both fists were clenched and dug into his hips hard enough to leave indentations in the skin beneath the soft cotton blend.

When things calmed down and everyone, except Wilson, of course, stopped laughing, House turned his attention to Cuddy and Chase. "And you two gallant people are here so early because … ?"

"Because," Cuddy replied with a touch of left-over humor, "Dr. Wilson would very much like to get out of here. I came in early to check him over at his request, and he seems to be recovering nicely. I saw no further reason to detain him. And Dr. Chase is here because Dr. Wilson called him and asked him to go on a mission."

House's elegant eyebrows rose. "Oh really? Been a busy little beaver, aint'cha, Wilson? 'Mission', huh? Mission of Mercy? Mission Impossible? Mission to Mars? _Per_-mission? _Sub_-mission? _Trans_-mission? _Oh_-mission? Mission-_Airy_? Mission to the Moo …."

"House, will you please be quiet!" Wilson scowled at him and waggled a handful of fingers between himself and his sartorial twin, indicating their scrub outfits. "I don't want to spend the day looking like a …" He paused, trying to think of an appropriate metaphor.

"Like a 'doctor'?" House interjected sarcastically.

Wilson ignored him. "Chase has agreed to go to the cleaner downtown and pick up the suit I dropped off there two days ago, and also, to get me a new shirt and tie and fresh underwear."

House nodded agreement that the idea seemed a sound one. "Excellent. Chase, my apartment key is in my locker. Wanna go to my place and get me a change of clothes too? When you locate my bedroom, you'll find my clothes. Bring me anything that's not in a pile on the floor. Uhhh … I'll see to it that Wilson buys your lunch for the next two weeks …"

Chase, meanwhile, stood his ground, and it was clear that he was enjoying the snarky interactions between his senior colleagues. His eyes were downcast, but he could not quite control the upturn at the corners of his mouth. "That will not be necessary. I'd be happy to help both of you out. Just don't expect me to do it on a regular basis, and it'll all be fine." He looked from one to the other as though stressing the point, but then let down his guard and shrugged at Cuddy who stood with her arms crossed, enjoying the situation. "Uhh … I'll be going now. Be back as soon as I can. See you later."

He escaped quickly; almost ran.

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The two of them shared Wilson's breakfast when it came, making quick work of orange juice and coffee, a bowl of dry cereal and toast with butter and jelly. Wilson sat on the bed and House lounged in the visitor's chair with his legs stretched out in front of him. Cuddy finally pressed a pill bottle into Wilson's hand, gave him a pointed look and left for her office. Wilson shoved it into the waistband of the scrubs without even looking at it. They waited for Chase to return from his "mission", saying very little until Wilson finally sighed in consternation and lifted puppy dog eyes to House.

"Hey …"

House looked up, knowing exactly what was coming, but allowing his friend the dignity of seeing him keep his own big mouth shut. "Umm?"

"Uh … I'm sorry I snapped at you awhile ago. It was kind of shitty."

"Yeah, it was … but … I _get_ it … y'know? You're all tied in knots, and that's okay. You still feeling as scared about seeing him as you were last night?"

Wilson nodded. "Yeah. I'm on pins and needles. Can't wait to get down there, but my head is spinning with all the 'what-ifs'. You _are_ going with me, right?"

"If that's what you want …"

"Of course it's what I want. You know me, and you know the history … you know what a coward I'm being about this. Why wouldn't I want you with me?"

"It's kind of private … a family thing. I really want to go with you … planned on it, in fact, since I saw the kid when he first came in, and he might remember me … but it's still up to you. I don't want to butt in."

Wilson's eyes narrowed and he smiled slightly. "God, House, that's a first for you, isn't it?"

House wrinkled his nose and snorted. "Don't push it!" He said.

They smiled sheepishly at each other for a moment, happy that the air between them was clear again. Neither of them would be caught dead, however, saying it out loud.

Wilson and House walked together to the nurses' station, standing patiently through the smiles and silly remarks. The story of their travails had swept the entire hospital by then, and the jokes ran the gamut from "The Bobbsey Twins" to "Abbot and Costello" to "Mutt and Jeff". When professionalism finally took the place of amateur Vaudeville comedy, every doctor, nurse, LPN, janitor and orderly wished Wilson a speedy recovery, and one of them even dared tell House to get out of the scrubs quickly before someone mistook him for The Grinch. House did not find the joke amusing, but when he looked plaintively to Wilson, his friend was standing with a telephone receiver in his hand doing his best to keep from laughing. And that, House decided, was a good thing! It kept him from torturing himself further about Roger.

Wilson called Oncology and spoke with Stan Ralls, his second in command, telling him that he would be in charge of the department for a few days until he, Wilson, felt fit enough to take over again. The amount of time he spent on the phone told House that Wilson was being brought up to date on a list of patients and their procedures, and letting him know who was on duty and who was not. After ten minutes or so, he hung up and they continued the wait for Robert Chase.

Chase finally called and told them that everything they'd asked for was now in the MD's locker room, and the two doctors could go get dressed any time. House and Wilson passed on their thanks and took their leave, heading straight for that sanctuary to change out of the thin, itchy scrubs. They entered the elevator with sighs of relief while four Nurses and LPNs waved, giggling, from behind the counter of the nurses' station.

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71


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 "Brothers"

"You ready to go see him?"

They were both fully dressed now, the pretty pastel-green scrubs discarded in the hamper. Both men looked appraisingly at each other and heaved sighs of relief. House looked like House, and Wilson once again looked like Wilson.

"Yeah," Wilson said, but his eyes betrayed him. They were as big as saucers, and had a faraway look that spoke of hesitation and trepidation. "I think so …"

House tilted his head and glared. "Jimmy, I don't think I've seen you so terrified of anything since I bought the damn crotch rocket with your five grand!"

Wilson rolled his eyes and grinned in spite of himself. "You have this innate gift for letting all the air out of other people's balloons," he said. "Sometimes you make me want to break your neck … and other times …"

House nodded smugly. "I know. You're welcome. Shall we go?"

"Yeah … let's!"

Shoulder to shoulder they left the locker room and headed for the elevator. House noticed that Wilson still seemed a little ouchy when he walked, and deliberately slowed his pace. This was different for him. Usually it was the other way around. "You're still sore." It was not a question.

Wilson looked across at him with an expression of surprise. "How would you know?"

"Hah!" Came the retort. "You're not the only one who plays 'looking out for the cripple'! You walk like you're eighty years old."

"And you don't?"

"Yeah, but I got a good excuse. What's yours?"

"There's a little bit of residual discomfort around my kidney area is all. I'll have it walked off by tonight."

"And now you're being smug because I _won't_, huh?"

"House …"

"Never mind! It's okay. You're all right? You sure?""

They'd arrived at the elevators. House jammed the "down" button with his cane.

"Yeah," Wilson said.

"Hey! Question …"

"What?"

"What happens when somebody makes the connection between you two? It won't take 'em long, you know."

"Yeah, I know. We always looked a lot alike from the time we were kids. I don't mind if people know he's my brother. I love him. Why should I mind? I just want to get there first and have him all to myself for a little while. Then, after that, let the dog-and-pony show begin. It'll be just like having my own 'Stuart Little'!"

"Oh brother … so to speak!" House grinned. "Good one, Wilson! But mine is a lot better! So you're okay with it, huh?"

"Sure."

"Okay."

When the elevator stopped and yawned open in front of them, they stepped in and stared hard at each other. Neither man spoke. Neither one had to.

The second floor indigent ward was chaos, and it wasn't as though they hadn't been expecting it. After the relative quiet of the department from which they'd arrived, the place seemed like a traffic jam in Manhattan. Patients were all over the place, in wheelchairs, on crutches, with heads, arms, legs bandaged, some of them dragging IV poles with multiple med bags swinging precariously. Wilson and House found that they were sidestepping and pressing hastily up against the walls to avoid being run over. By the time they made it to the nurses' station, both were panting and House's leg, which had been tamer than usual all morning, was humming with pain and causing him no end of distress.

Maria Colby was the reigning RN behind the counter, and she looked up just as the two doctors approached and flanked her with silly expressions of mock terror. She smiled at them and leaned over the counter to be sure they could hear her over the din. "Hi, Dr. House … Dr. Wilson." She frowned at Wilson, noting that he seemed a little paler than usual. "I hear you've been ill, Dr. Wilson. I hope you're feeling better."

He nodded. "Thanks. I'm feeling very much better. You can't keep an old oncologist down."

Beside him, Gregg House scoffed.

Wilson ignored him. "What are you doing up here on the ward today?'

"Filling in," she replied. "They don't need me in ER again until Saturday, so I thought I'd do my shift here. What they really need though, is a traffic cop. These guys wander all over the place. They're supposed to exercise however they can, but sometimes it gets a little much." She shrugged. "What can I help you with?"

"Dr. House told me about a young man who came in to ER yesterday morning … presented with suspected PPS. The case kind of intrigued me. Could you tell us what room he's in?"

Maria smiled, nodded to House in confirmation. "Oh … you mean Roger. Yeah, he's still here. Poor little guy … he's so scared and so sick. He's down at the end of the hall. He's not ambulatory, you know. His muscles continue to deteriorate. I'm beginning to think Dr. Fetterolf was right. It really is PPS. He must have been hit pretty hard when he was a kid." Wilson caught himself just in time, and managed not to say: _Yeah … he was!_

"They're going to take him to the hydrotherapy pool this afternoon, see if it helps with his pain a little. He's still on the same pain meds as yesterday, Dr. House. He'll probably be glad to see you. He hasn't had any visitors." She paused a moment, as though debating, then: "Dr. House, I don't know whether this is pertinent or not, but Roger has asked twice now about 'the doctor with the hurt leg'. I think he's worried about you."

House scowled and rolled his eyes. "Just what I need … another bleeding heart!" He shook his head, impatient with himself. "I should be encouraged that at least he remembers someone!"

The two of them thanked Colby and turned toward the end of the long hallway. Next stop: Philip Roger Wilson.

It was a four-bed ward. Two of the beds were empty, their covers rumpled, pillows pounded to pretzels. The third held an intubated man with IVs and wires sticking out all over him. A respirator breathed for him, and he was nearly inundated with bed coverings. Monitors beeped a steady rhythm. House looked over there with hard eyes, and Wilson knew what he was thinking:

_Circling the drain …_

In the bed against the far wall, a frail, fragile young man with matchstick arms and hollow cheeks sat propped against a mountain of pillows. An IV was taped to his hand by the same arrangement which had held his brother captive. His hair was long and dark and reached nearly to his shoulders, curling at the ends. His eyes were tortured like a wounded fawn's. His skin was pale as parchment, and his mouth was turned down at the corners as though he needed to cry. His gaze was straight ahead, beautiful hands curled up in his lap. His entire world was contained within the 3'x 6' area of his own bed.

Beside him, Gregg House watched his friend James inhale a horrified breath and stop dead in his tracks. House whirled, his leg screaming, and caught Wilson's shoulders. His cane dropped and rang loudly on the hard composition floor. Wilson caught himself and straightened abruptly, combing the shock from his face with obvious effort. "Oh my God, House! It _is_ him! It's Roger … my brother."

"Easy …" This was not House's strong suit. He was at a loss as to what to do next. The reality of his own pain railed at his nerve endings and he listed heavily to the left. The pale young man in the bed, however, solved the dilemma for him.

The huge dark eyes widened to deep pools of shattered glass. Roger Wilson turned his attention to the two men holding onto each other a few feet beyond his bed. "You're Dr. House," he said. "You're the doctor with the hurt leg. I saw you yesterday when you were here with Maria."

Gregg was too busy shoring Wilson up to answer. James gathered himself and straightened, shaking off the shocked expression with effort. Forever the guardian, he picked up House's cane and handed it to him.

Gregg nodded, turning Wilson loose and hissing a breath between his teeth as he did so. "Yeah," he finally said. "That would be me." He indicated Wilson with a wave of his hand, trying to focus the kid's interest away from himself. "Roger, do you know who this is?"

The dark gaze regarded Wilson with no hint of recognition, and a pair of parallel vertical lines appeared between the eyes. "Do I know you? You look … familiar. But I'm not sure. Sometimes I have trouble remembering stuff."

Wilson rounded the bed and walked closer. "We've … met …" he said hesitantly. "But we haven't seen each other for quite a long time."

"Really?" Roger's scrutiny swept across Wilson's attire: the suit pants, blue shirt, dark blue tie, lab coat with I. D. badge prominent on the breast pocket. He blinked owlishly, clearly unable to read it at that distance. "Are you a doctor too?" The young man's attention wavered unexpectedly between House and Wilson for another moment, and then refocused on House with obvious concern. "Dr. House, your leg is hurting you a lot, isn't it?"

House frowned darkly, eyes riveting on the kid on the bed. "How the hell do _you_ know?" His question came out with more anger than he'd intended.

Roger's head dropped, chastised. His face clouded in dismay for a moment, but then he went on, voice subdued, but filled with a world-weary sensitivity of long, hard experience. "Because your face is like an open wound, your eyes are full of pain, and your cane will break in two if you don't let loose. Your eyes talk to the way I feel stuff."

Wilson looked from his brother to his friend, eyes filling instantly. Visions from long ago flooded his mind and his heart with an old, sweet familiarity. The innate gift of empathy which had followed the Wilson family all their years was so patently obvious here that it made his stomach twist painfully. It was like being baptized with fire. He could not recall a time when his younger brother's tender heart had not gone out to the disinherited of the Earth, be it animal or human. Rodge noticed pain in others because he had experienced it so deeply himself. James was about to try to explain Gregg's snarky rudeness, but pulled himself up short when House himself spoke up instead.

"You can tell all that just by looking at me, huh? Sorry I snapped at you, but you're right. When I'm in pain, I get nasty."

Wilson could not believe his ears. House admitting pain and apologizing for being an ass? What kind of magic did his brother possess? In the meantime, the two continued to spar.

"You're pretty much in a lot of pain all the time, huh?" Roger was interested now; agonizing for a man he'd known but a single day.

"Yeah … every day … 'pretty much'. And you?"

House actually giving a crap about someone other than himself? Actually speaking the painful truth about his deep frustration and prolonged agony? Jeez! Someone needed to make an "NBC Movie of the Week" about this!

"Yeah! My legs … they just kept getting worse every day for a long time. Weaker and weaker … hurting. Pain that creeps up on me until sometimes I want to scream. It's really bad in cold weather. It's hard to walk most of the time, and if I have to run away like I did that other time … trying to get away from people chasing me … they hurt so bad I guess I passed out. They hurt now, but not as bad as before. I think there's pain medicine going into the tube in my arm …"

House nodded. He looked around the room and spotted a wheeled stool off in the opposite corner. Wilson interpreted the look and walked across to bring it over to him, not taking his eyes off the ongoing exchange for an instant. House met his friend's eyes in a silent flash of thanks and lowered himself gingerly, stretching his leg in front him with the aid of both hands, concentrating on that particularly bad spot just above the knee. Both Wilson brothers knew instinctively he was nearing the end of his rope. In the meantime, he continued the conversation as though the interruption had never occurred.

"Yeah," he said at last. "There is. They're trying to back you down easy. How did you treat your pain before you came here?"

The dark head came up slowly, apologetic. "I stole aspirin."

"What?"

"Yeah. Julie and me … we'd go in Wal-Mart or K-Mart or Target and hang around in the medicine department. When nobody was looking, we'd open a box and dump the pills in our pockets and put the bottles and the boxes back." He shrugged. "That's so the electronics wouldn't catch us going out of the store with stuff that didn't belong to us."

"You were lucky you didn't get caught," House said. "Did it help?"

"A little. Not much."

"Who's Julie?" Wilson asked with a frown. Coincidence here.

"My friend. My _special_ friend."

"Is she your girlfriend?"

There was a shy smile. "Not exactly. _He's_ … my boyfriend."

"'He'?"

"Yeah. Jules. Everybody calls him 'Julie'. He's such a girl! I hope he's okay. I don't think he knows where I am."

House and Wilson exchanged glances, four eyebrows rising, understanding smiles tugging at their mouths. Wilson knew he had to be the one to ask.

"Are you … ?"

"A Fag. Yeah. I guess I was born that way. Are you guys mad?"

House snorted with laughter. "Hell no, of course not! It's your own business!"

House couldn't have cared less who screwed whom, as long as those involved were adults, and the love-in was by mutual consent. He, of all people, realized human beings had little or no control over the person he-or-she fell in love with. To his consternation he was discovering more and more about that every day. His thoughts turned warmly to Wilson for a heartbeat, and the two of them traded glances.

Roger studied them curiously for a moment, and then recognized the subtlety of the quiet exchange. He smiled in a shy manner, gratified they were not overly concerned about his own admission of lifestyle, and understanding why. He decided he … and they … had much in common. "Thanks," he said.

Changing the subject abruptly, Wilson indicated his brother's legs, covered with a warm blanket and appearing thin and wasted beneath it. "Would you mind if Dr. House and I took a look at your legs? Maybe he or I can come up with something that will ease more of your pain and let you rest a little better."

Roger hesitated, still a little unsure. "You're not going to hurt me … ?"

"No. We'll be very careful _not_ to hurt you. My name, by the way, is Jim. Jim Wilson." He spoke softly, looking into the hurt face again, watching for reactions. At first there didn't seem to be any other than puzzlement.

Roger frowned, concentration evident as he mulled over the other man's purpose in repeating his own name. Was he expected to recognize it? "You can do it then," he said, and Wilson heard him repeat the name softly under his breath.

They lifted the blankets from Roger's legs and feet. His limbs were like toothpicks, all bone and sinew covered with parchment skin. His feet had been treated with antiseptic, then bandaged with gauze and wrapped loosely with Ace bandages. Patches of abraded flesh showed at the edges where his ill-fitting shoes had rubbed him raw to the point of near-infection. It was no wonder he could not walk. Even without the added pain of the PPS, he would be hard-pressed to tolerate any weight at all on his damaged feet.

House wheeled closer, distracted from his own discomfort now by ministering to the discomfort of his patient. Wilson watched his friend's practiced hands move delicately to check the small patches of uninjured skin on Roger's feet, then work their gentle way upward, feeling for skin temperature, gauging the low bone density and atrophied muscle tone that passed beneath those long artist's fingers. Roger remained quiet but intent.

House reached the young man's knees and felt the swelling there. The elevated heat level was obvious in the distended joints as Roger hissed a quick indrawn breath and his eyes narrowed in sudden pain. Gregg paused, fingers still touching lightly. "Hurt?"

A quick nod.

"Yeah. Sorry to be such a pain in the butt."

House did not intend to smile, but he did. It was very "Wilson-like" to apologize for breathing. "You're not a pain in the butt … you're a boy."

_Why did I just call him a boy? Somehow he still possesses a boy's innocence, or at least that's what he seems to project … _

Gregg felt his breath catch as he backed away again. My God! These two were so alike; both so beautiful in different ways. Absently, he was even doing that "hospital-irony" thing he'd so often scoffed about, arranging sheets and blankets carefully at this patient's waist. He felt Wilson's eyes on him, and then the other Wilson's eyes on him too, and he realized that his own eyes were smarting, and he didn't know why, except for the sudden fear that this day would be fraught with regret.

_Oh, God! I'm drowning in this! They're coming at me from both sides and I'm going down for the third time. I need to get the hell out of here …_

Gregg straightened on the stool and grimaced, wrapping his hands gingerly again around the nagging area of his thigh. It hurt like hell. Yeah, he definitely needed to get out of here and escape to his office. He needed a stiff dose of Vicodin and some loud music and some time to prop his legs up to ride out this onset of "crippled guy" syndrome.

"I'm going down to see Norm Lyons in Orthopedics," House announced. "I'll have him take a look at this. I think Roger can be helped with small injections of steroids over a period of time, but I need to see what Norm thinks first." He pushed himself off the stool and pressed his cane handle deep into the sparse flesh at the junction of his right hip. _OW! Fuck! _

"If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'll get to it and be in touch. Wilson, I'll meet you for lunch in a couple of hours. Roger … I'll see you later this afternoon … maybe when you go down to the hydrotherapy pool." He turned painfully, much of his weight curling over the cane, and limped out of the room before either of them could reply.

Roger turned to the white-coated doctor, still standing next to his bed. "Jim?"

"Yes?" Wilson's eyes were still on the retreating back.

"You love him a lot, don't you?"

Wilson gaped, caught totally at a loss. "What?"

"It's hard to love someone like him though, isn't it? He's stubborn … and proud. And in pain! But it's not all about his leg, you know. He can't stand being pitied. In his mind he's still The Incredible Hulk. But his leg won't let him play it. You have to be very careful with him. One wrong move, and he's gone … almost like smoke above the water."

Wilson's jaw dropped. His own words so nearly quoted; turned back on him by a man who was literally his twin! This was beginning to touch on the metaphysical.

_Vulcan mind meld!_

"Where the hell …" he choked, "did you ever come up with that? You're so close to being right that it scares the hell out of me."

Roger smiled, a shy upward turn of his mouth. "I don't know. Guess I heard it somewhere. I can tell you care for him. He feels the same way, you know."

Wilson swallowed hard. His and Gregg's feelings for each other must be an open book around the entire hospital if this brother-stranger saw it after an hour and seven minutes. It seemed unreal. He was becoming antsy and a bit rattled. He eased himself onto the edge of the bed near this unfamiliar person for whom he was experiencing a growing affection. This was not Roger … but it was! Oh God! He touched the thin shoulder. This pussy footing was avoiding the issue. James Wilson needed to know. _Now!_

"Rodge," he said softly, using his brother's nickname and locking their gazes very tightly together. "Look at me! Look at me closely … and tell me what you see."

There was a comical blankness, then deep puzzlement, and Roger's right hand rose to clasp the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the tension there. It was like looking into a mirror at his own reflection, Wilson thought.

Roger's chin lifted and the puzzlement morphed into concentration, and the concentration deepened further. Wilson's hand moved across to take Roger's fingers into his own, drawing his arm away from the area of his neck, clasping it against his own chest with urgency, holding tightly as though the touch of their fingers might serve as a memory conduit. "Rodge! Don't you remember me? It's Jimmy! Do you remember that old Louisville Slugger with the chunk out of the handle? And the first baseman's mitt you used to drag around everywhere? Remember Yazzi, the big scraggly mutt Dad found wandering around the railroad yards and brought home with him? Remember Mom and Dad's old Plymouth station wagon that Dad restored? Remember Tommy's funny girlfriend, Suzanne? He married her, Rodge! Sue's your sister-in-law now."

The darker-than-Wilson eyes narrowed and then widened. Roger's focus darted to the left and to the right, knowing something was expected of him, but not certain what. His eyebrows dipped and lifted, lips trembling. Wilson could almost feel the synapses of his brother's damaged brain as they snapped and flashed with tangible effort. Roger frowned for an agonizing march of moments, and then a tiny light flicked on inside his head and a spark of comprehension stirred. But he still hesitated. His eyes were bright with want and need, and Wilson's heart stood still. One beat … two … three …

Roger frowned. "Tommy?"

"Yes! He's our big brother!"

"Yazzi! She was big and ugly and clumsy, a big baby. And I remember the old Plymouth station wagon … It was green … 1968." Roger's mouth dropped open in the astonishment of sudden recollection.

"Yes!" Wilson was crushing both their hands in an iron grip. Consciously he let his fingers go limp before he accidentally took out some small bones.

"You're Jimmy! My brother! I have _two_ brothers!" His eyes were flooding, tears splashing over and running unabated down his cheeks. "I remember! Oh God! I know you!"

"Roger … sweet boy … you're home …" _ He's a boy … like House said …_

Then they were in each other's arms. Hugging, tangling the IV line; weeping happily and moaning. Long lost brothers, not lost any longer! Roger's memory slammed back like a hot spike of summer lightning.

They untangled the IV and then sat and mapped each other's faces; not a freckle or a mole untouched, not a hair or a facial feature unexamined. Their tears ran unchecked, their smiles shy and exploring, and their questions urgent and needy.

"Mom and Dad and Tommy … all well?"

"They're fine. We'll call them as soon as you're strong enough. Yazzi's been gone a long time. They never got another dog. She was special. They drive a Volvo now. The old Plymouth finally died. You had polio when you were a kid. And now it's back.

"And where _were_ _you_ for ten years? You became a teacher, but you never taught."

"I was in the Air Force, I think. Mostly. No … I never taught. That was forever ago. The military found out I was gay. They discharged me. Would you believe medical? Like being a homo is a disease! They never batted an eye when they found out I had polio! Jerks! 'Course I didn't tell them until they asked. I got sick and passed out in my quarters one day. They found a picture of me and my boyfriend on the floor beside me. That's around the time when my legs started to hurt. I never told anyone. After that, I left … just moved around. Then the world started to fade away; right out from under me until it was all gone. And you're a doctor! Wow! Tell me about what you do."

"Cancer … I'm an Oncologist. My job can be heartbreaking … but rewarding too. I love my work, and I can't even imagine doing anything else with my life. This is easily the best hospital in New Jersey. We teach student doctors here; try to retain the best of them on staff. You'll probably get to meet some of them. You're going to be here awhile … you know you're in for serious rehab if you want to walk again. I'm sorry, but your polio virus has returned and attacked again near the site of the tissue you thought was healed. Once the word gets around that you're my brother, you'll have plenty of company."

Roger stared at him. "That's a good thing, isn't it? I'll meet friends of my brother's!"

"Yeah, it is if they don't bother you when you're not feeling well. So, where do you live?"

"We live on the streets … all over … Julie and me … we just go wherever the wind blows … here and there. We hang out at homeless shelters when we can. Other times a day's worth of odd jobs gets us a flop for the night. Then we move on. Sometimes we get to Florida in the winter and work in the citrus fields. We make enough to rent a place for awhile. When the work dries up, we move on again. It's not a great life, but we're used to it. I have to find Julie … he'll be worried."

"How will you find him? You can't walk."

"You'd be surprised. He's pretty smart. He knows my legs were going bad, and he'll be watching the hospitals. He'll be looking for a red flag hanging from a tree in a public place. It's a signal we have if we get separated. Then we meet there at noon as soon as we can. Funny thing though … he never knew my whole name before. Come to think of it, I didn't either …" Roger laughed sadly, looked at their hands, still clutching at each other near the edge of the bed.

"What happened to Dr. House, Jimmy? What crippled him? He's not like me, is he?"

Wilson blinked at the question. He hadn't expected it. "No, uh … he had a blood clot … femoral artery. They didn't catch it right away. Blood flow was blocked and it caused his quadriceps muscle to die. They had to remove so much of it that they butchered his nerve endings. He not only has very little strength in his leg, he's also in constant pain. He's been my best friend ever since the day I met him when he was still whole and strong. He's not very careful with his health. I try not to let him know it, but I keep a pretty close eye on him."

Roger smiled. "Oh, he knows! Trust me! It's a shame what happened to him. He never sued over the mess they made of his leg? He could probably collect a fortune and never have to worry about working again."

"Don't even think it! His work is who he is. Without it he might as well be dead. He never even considered suing. That's not something Gregg would do."

"'Greg', huh?"

"Yeah. Gregory House, Chief of Diagnostics. Medical ears perk up all over the country at the mention of his name."

"You're kidding! He's famous? Really? Wow! I got to meet a famous doctor! And he's sort of … yours." Roger hesitated a moment, then continued cautiously. "The thing between the two of you is … kind of new though, isn't it?"

Wilson smiled, half embarrassed. "Yeah … kind of. Keep your voice down, please!"

"Sorry, Jimmy. Believe me, I know exactly how you feel. Being gay can be scary to live with. The world still isn't ready for us. I don't know why, but it's true. If there's something meant to happen between you and Dr. House, it will. Be ready for anything, but don't give up if it doesn't happen right away. It took a long time for Julie and me to get it right. We don't exactly get a lot of privacy …"

Roger had suddenly turned into the comforter rather than the comforted, and Wilson could not keep the astonishment off his face. He continued to sit and watch and lose himself in the mind-consuming newness of having his brother back in his life again. He could not help noticing the shadows of pain which still lingered on the thin, guileless face. Roger was still hurting and trying very hard to minimize it, a propensity so chillingly characteristic of another stubborn person in his life. He had to smile at the similarities. Wilson did not want to leave, but he knew he should. Roger was still wide-eyed with the rediscovery of his past life and the desire to discuss it at length, breathlessly and in minute detail. But he was tiring. The hollows in his cheeks were beginning to resemble the sand traps on a golf course.

Wilson placed Roger's hand back at his side and rose from where he'd been perched on the edge of the narrow bed. He leaned down to plant a kiss on the taut forehead, and then straightened as a sudden stitch in his side caused him to wince. His brother looked up, silently questioning, but Wilson held a finger to his lips and the question in Roger's eyes died aborning. "Thanks, Rodge," Wilson said, letting the rest of it hang in the air between them. His brother would know what he meant. "I'm going to stop by the nurse's station and have them up your medication. There's no reason for you to sit here in pain." A white lie was needed now, and Wilson was prepared to tell it; something else he'd become expert with since knowing House. "I have some work to finish up, and patients I must see. When they take you for hydrotherapy, I'll try to be back. House too, probably. If not, then tomorrow morning. You rest, and I'll see you later, okay? I love you."

"And I love you too, Jimmy. You take care. Later." Roger sank back into the pillows, exhaustion darkening his face like a shadow.

Wilson could feel the brown eyes at his back even as he turned left into the corridor and walked slowly toward the nurse's station. Totally overwhelmed with the turn of events in his life, he desperately needed some breathing room and a chance to talk to House. He flexed his shoulders as he walked, warding off the twinge of discomfort he'd felt a few minutes earlier. He still wasn't up to par from the annoying infection two days previous, and perhaps he should not have been so insistent on cutting loose from the regimen of that hospital room. The need to get to his brother had overridden his good judgment, however, and now that they had reconnected in such a positive way, he was very glad he'd pushed for Cuddy's permission to allow an early release. Roger's surprising restoration of memory and quick response had left him giddy and floating. He decided that he would return to his office and rest awhile, try to assimilate everything that had happened before someone other than Gregg House made the connection between them, and all hell broke loose. He stopped at the counter and wrote up an order for Roger to receive 100mg of Tylenol-3 four times a day.

Wilson returned to his office and let himself inside while no one on his staff or any of the young doctors next door happened to be haunting the hallways. He dropped his keys in the pocket of his lab coat and his fingers touched the pill bottle Cuddy had forced into his hand that morning. Urimax: 40mg four times daily. He'd forgotten about it until now, and he was already a dose behind. He rose from his desk again with a sigh and walked into his lavatory, ran a glass of water and came back with it. He swallowed the pill, drank the water, set the glass on his desk and returned the bottle to his pocket. He shouldered out of his lab coat and hung it over the back of the chair, then sat down once again. His back hurt. He'd overdone it without even realizing it. James lowered his head onto his hands on top of the desk and willed himself to relax.

With his head turned to the left, propped on his folded arms, Wilson could see out the glass door, across the stretch of balcony, and over the brick wall which separated his office from Gregg's. Just beyond that other glass door he could detect a shadow of movement that broke through the reflection from the side of the building. Gregg House was in his ergonomic office chair with his long legs propped on the bookcase beneath the window. He was not idle. Oh no! He sat with his back turned to the middle of the room in a stiff-backed "let-me-the-fuck-alone" posture which Wilson knew so well. He was tossing that damned red ball back and forth between his hands with a momentum that Wilson could feel like a pulse beat in his brain, and he knew the impact from each release had to sting the man's palms like crazy.

Wilson wondered what the hell House was pissed off about now!

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84


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 "Mixed Bag"

In the "conference room/lunch room/differential-diagnosis room/screw-off room" between Dr. House's and Dr. Wilson's offices, the three young physicians on House's service gathered from their morning's work on the floor and in the clinic. It was time for lunch break, and the three of them welcomed the respite from traipsing all over the place between departments, labs, treatment rooms and operating theaters.

They were all aware that House and Wilson had taken on the responsibility of monitoring some mysterious new case, into which none of the three of them had been invited. They were puzzled and curious, but knew better than to butt into any closed-door conference sessions that involved both of their mentors with their heads together. When House told them point blank: "None of your business" that morning, then it was none of their business! The dismissal had stunned them. All three had subsequently wasted time speculating and asking questions around the clinic and other departments, but nothing enlightening had come their way. None of them gave a thought to the ward full of unfortunates on the second floor, or the chart they'd been discussing when Wilson had folded at their feet. Eventually they had dropped it and gone about their duties, quietly wandering through their morning rituals with knit brows and random imaginings.

Robert Chase sat at the table near the whiteboard with a spread newspaper, a bag of potato chips and a cup of clam chowder. He made slurping sounds with every spoonful. Eric Foreman, likewise, sat in a chair across from Chase with a dog-eared magazine open in front of him and a ham and cheese sandwich and a Pepsi on a napkin at his elbow.

Allison Cameron stood in front of the tiny sink-cum-coffee prep area with an open bottle of Sunny D. Her back was against the connecting wall of the room next door, and she had just felt the vibrations of Wilson's office door opening and closing.

"Dr. Wilson's back," she announced to no one in particular.

Foreman paid no attention, but Chase looked up with a blank expression on his face. "How do you know? Do you have X-Ray vision?" Then he smirked at his own wit.

Cameron glared at him and heaved a sigh of the martyred. _Such a boy!_ "I have ESP," she said in a bored tone. "I'm just saying … he's over there."

Foreman finally looked up. "So what?" He said. "The 'mysterious case' must have fizzled … or it wasn't as mysterious as everybody thought. House has been back for over an hour. He's sitting in his office with his back turned, playing with that damned ball … and you know what that means …" He rolled his eyes and went back to his ratty magazine and ham sandwich.

"Could mean one of two things …or three …depends on your point of view," Cameron continued. "First, he could be in a lot of pain and trying to ride it out. Second, he's got a puzzle and he's concentrating on it and doesn't want to be disturbed. Or …"

Foreman looked up again and snorted sarcastically. "_Or_ … both of the above … or none of the above … or else he's just in a piss-poor mood. Anybody feel like making a bet?"

The other two were quiet. No takers. Foreman was probably right.

Still, Cameron wasn't convinced. She polished off the bottle of Sunny D and tossed the empty in the trash. "Maybe … but Dr. Wilson is in his office. Trust me! He's back and he hasn't been in to check with House. Isn't that a little unusual? They usually go to lunch together, and it's past noon." She ran the water in the little sink and rinsed her hands. "I'm going next door and check … maybe I can find out something by asking Dr. Wilson if there's anything he needs … or something we can do …"

"Cameron, I'm not finished with my lunch!" Chase whined.

"Me either," groused Foreman.

Cameron rolled her eyes and walked over to the corridor door. "Be back in a minute," she said.

Neither of them even looked up again when she left.

Allison walked up to Wilson's closed office door cautiously and listened. There was no movement within, so she knocked softly. No answer. He might be deep into charting, or he might be listening to his fancy Bose sound system. She knocked again, a little louder, and tried the door. The handle turned and she stuck her head inside, looking cautiously around.

Wilson was at his desk, head down on the surface of it. She knew he'd spent two days in bed hooked to IVs after being admitted for a urinary tract infection, but had been discharged earlier this morning. He was probably tired and suffering a bit of residual cramping and weakness. He must have been resting and fallen asleep. He was such a sweet man; compassionate and caring, and rather a puzzle in and of himself. No one around the hospital except House seemed to know that much about him, except for his reputation as a skirt chaser, which Cameron didn't believe anyway. It was only a rumor.

She approached his desk, a little hesitant at disturbing him. His head was turned away from her, but the closer she approached, the more she could feel the hackles rising at the back of her neck. Something was not right. Wilson was slumped in an unnatural position, his right cheek hard on the surface of the desk, his neck twisted sharply in a decidedly uncomfortable manner. His left arm was cocked near the edge, his right shoulder sagged drunkenly, and his right arm hung at his side with the fingers nearly dragging on the floor. An empty water glass lay overturned on the carpet nearby.

Cameron felt her breath hitch in her throat as she hurried to Wilson's side. She placed one hand on his forehead and the other over his carotid artery. His pulse was strong, but his temperature was slightly elevated. He did not move beneath her touch.

He was not asleep. He was unconscious!

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House flung the ball back toward his desk when his pager went off. He reached to his belt and pulled it out. His leg hitched with the movement and he grunted painfully. Where the hell was Wilson? It was time for lunch and he was almost out of Vicodin. He didn't need to be called to wipe another damn snotty nose!

The message read: _"WILSON! HURRY!"_ He stared, wasting precious moments assimilating its meaning.

He scraped his legs off the bookcase in a flurry of movement and whirled the chair around. Flame shot into his hip and up his spine, but he gasped a deep breath, held it, and ignored the pain. Heads would roll if this didn't mean what he thought it did! He pushed himself to his feet quickly, biting down hard on his bottom lip. He grabbed his cane and made for the balcony door.

"_Son of a BITCH!"_

They probably heard him in downtown Plainsboro.

House was across the balcony, over the wall and pushing Wilson's glass door aside with a whip of his powerful arms. By the time he got to Wilson's side, accessed the situation and motioned Cameron out of his way, his knee had given out and he was forced to hop-step clumsily on his sound leg. He dropped the cane and propped his right hip on the edge of the desk. He grabbed Wilson roughly by the front of his shirt, pulling him upright in his chair, steadying his shoulders and smacking his cheek to wake him up.

Cameron stood helplessly nearby, knowing better than to interfere when House was like this. Foreman and Chase burst through the front office door at that moment, freezing in position when they saw their boss at his magnificent best, doing what he was born to do.

"Wilson! C'mon Wilson … get your lazy ass around here and pay attention to me!" House's long fingers were on Wilson's wrist with his left hand, encircling his friend's shoulders with his right arm, pulling him forward against his chest, switching positions quickly, pinching the man's cheeks between thumb and fingers until Wilson's mouth cranked open, shaking him back to consciousness.

Wilson groaned and started to come around. House gave him another whack across the cheek. Wilson seemed to jump start at the rough handling. His hand came across and grabbed House's other wrist. "OW! You fucker! Stop it!" Groggily he looked up and saw who it was. The blue eyes were blazing above him. Something … not anger … but something feral and tortured … radiating.

Wilson took a deep breath and leaned gratefully into House's chest. Not so much weakness or pain; more like reassurance.

_I'm okay!_

"Dammit, man," James grumbled weakly, "Could you please not _do_ that? I don't _feel_ good!"

Foreman and Cameron and Chase let themselves relax, wilting in their tracks as Wilson sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. All three of them were still wide-eyed from the adrenaline rush that was now receding and leaving them weak-kneed. They stood staring helplessly as House backed off and gave Wilson some space. Cameron took a step forward, retrieved House's cane from the floor and extended it to him. He took it and nodded a thank you, but did not speak for a moment. His eyes never left Wilson's face. He was ashen from his own pain, but the pallor of his skin was the only indication of his difficulties. Very casually he reached to his jacket pocket and pulled out his Vicodin bottle. He pried off the lid and palmed two of them, threw back his head and swallowed. There were only two left.

"Well now … wasn't _that_ exciting?" House growled, voice dripping with sarcasm as he replaced the pill bottle, rubbery face twisted like a fright mask. "You went and got yourself all light-headed, didn't you?" He asked.

Wilson looked away for a moment before nodding his head in the affirmative. "I came back from downstairs and I thought I'd rest awhile before lunch. So I sat down and put my head on the desk. But when I went to get up again, the whole room started spinning and I figured I'd better sit down before I fell down. But I was too late. I passed out … went out like a light. I still feel a little woozy and weak. I don't think I want any lunch, House, so you go ahead without me. I'll just stay put here and … zone out for awhile." He looked a little sheepish. He shrugged.

"Just what you need, Wilson … to skip another meal! Pretty soon you'll look like a fugitive from an interment camp too." House still sat perched on the edge of Wilson's desk. He knew if he tried to move, his leg would throw his ass on the floor. So he didn't move. Not until the kids left anyway. No one but Wilson had the privilege of seeing him this vulnerable. He nodded to the three young doctors standing awkwardly near the door. They needed to leave, but were still worried about Wilson. House knew the drill.

"Why don't the three of you go back and finish your lunches. I'm going to stay put and keep an eye on this Yay-hoo until he gets his act together."

They knew when they were being dismissed. They turned to leave.

"Cameron!"

She turned hopefully when he called her name. "Yes?" She looked at him with brow furrowed.

"Good call!" He said before turning his full attention back to Wilson.

"Thank you."

He didn't see her leave.

When they were gone, he hobbled across to the couch, right sneaker barely touching down as a meager aid to balance. "You scared the hell out of me," he sighed through clenched teeth as he lowered himself gingerly onto the cushions of the old Kroehler convertible.

Wilson's face was worried, half ready to be angry, but not. No one in this much pain deserved any kind of recrimination. His own light-headedness was beginning to ease, and he found that he felt better. He should probably take another one of Cuddy's Urimax. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. And you twisted your damn leg, didn't you?"

House gritted his teeth and ran his hand along his thigh. "Yeah, but that's nothing new. Stuff does get screwed up now and again. I hate it when you're sick." His pain was toning down by increments. The Vicodin was kicking in quickly. He sighed and stretched out his leg as far as he could stand it. "Tell me about your brother," he said, "if you're up to it." House was in need of distraction. 

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"He remembers me, House …"

Wilson did not elaborate further, but to House the simple statement contained the exact amount of information he needed to understand his friend's state of being. Wilson wanted to talk, but this was not the right time. He still looked a little pale. He needed to rest and regroup, eat a decent meal. House himself was a little worried about his own physical status. He suspected he was in no condition to attempt to walk alone yet, even with the cane. "You jumped the gun getting Cuddy to discharge you so soon, didn't you? I notice your temp is up."

Wilson nodded. "Yeah, probably, but it's nothing serious. I would know if it was. I need to settle my electrolyte balance and find a way to relieve some of this tension. My head hurts and I'm stiff and sore, but I wouldn't actually call myself 'sick'. I call myself 'hungry'. I wasn't going to eat anything, but I guess I've changed my mind. Do you think you're able to get to the elevator without hurting yourself? We'll go out to lunch somewhere downtown. I can get the car and meet you in the parking garage right where the elevator opens."

"Give me fifteen minutes for my meds to max up enough so I can walk without looking totally pathetic? And by the way, I need my scrip refilled …"

"Whatever you need …"

House's response was another snort of irony. "We're both pathetic!"

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They went to lunch at _T. G. I. Friday's_. Both of them ordered pasta dishes loaded with carbs and protein. They each polished off two tall glasses of sugary iced tea and then had coffee and apple pie ala mode.

"How are your electrolytes now?" House asked with a droll grin.

"Floating out my ears, I think," Wilson replied with a smile. "I also think I'll bring Roger over here when they finally discharge him. He certainly won't go away hungry."

House nodded agreement. "No he won't. All I need now is a good cigar."

"No you don't."

"Oh yes I do!"

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When they got back to the hospital, parked the Pacifica in the _Handicapped _spot again and worked their way across to the Hydrotherapy pool, Roger was already there. His painfully thin body was clad in black swim trunks that might have fit a slender ten-year-old. He was buoyed up by a white life preserver which looked as though it might once have graced a deck of the _TITANIC. _The warm swirling waters of the big tank carried him around the perimeter in gentle rocking action, and his skinny legs moved in a weak doggy paddle motion. The dark patches of antiseptic which covered his abraded skin made him look a little like a short-necked giraffe, and his dark, almost black hair was soaked and dripping and clung to his head like a skull cap.

Nancy Franklin sat in one of about a half dozen webbed-aluminum chairs scattered about the edge of the pool, and kept up a running banter of snarky comments with the smiling young man floating around below her. His IV line had been removed and the bandages were gone from both feet. "Try not to get too close to the jets, Roger. And don't bang into the edge. The only thing we want touching you is the water. And shake your head, for cryin' out loud! You look like a seal!"

He was laughing, skating water in her direction with the heel of his hand. "Arf arf!" he called. He shook his head furiously, which only made his thick mane of hair stand out in dark spikes and swirls that obscured a good half of his face. Water droplets spattered Nancy, the deck, the chairs, and also a black wheelchair which stood nearby. He raked the wet hair from his face with both hands.

Nancy yelped at him, exaggerating for his benefit, and threw up her arms in mock annoyance. "You got me!" She hollered at him, and then laughed.

He laughed back while his preserver rotated in the swirling water. He spotted House and Wilson at the exact moment they came through the door. "Hi Jimmy! Hi Gregg!" He raised a thin arm and waggled his fingers in their direction as the inner tube turned his body around and around. He did not appear to be in pain any longer, but it was plain to see that he hadn't much physical strength, and the PPS had taken its toll.

Nancy turned in her chair and waved also, even while experiencing a sudden spark of revelation at how closely Roger resembled Dr. Wilson. She frowned, trying to hide her curiosity, while glancing from one to the other and coming closer and closer to the conclusion that the reason they looked so much alike couldn't possibly be a coincidence.

House walked gingerly across the splattered floor, picking his way cautiously. Wilson hovered near his left side, watchful. If House noticed, he ignored it. They both lowered themselves onto the extra chairs and waved back. "Hey, man!" Wilson called. "How're you doing?"

Roger smiled. "Pretty good. My legs don't hurt anymore. They don't work much either, but they don't hurt. Is your leg any better today, Greg?"

House rolled his eyes. _Ahhh … crap!_ "Yeah. Did you have an injection this morning?" He was determined to get the focus off himself.

"Yeah. How'd you know? I had to take some pills too." He frowned that "Wilson" frown, and Nancy, sitting beside James, hitched a breath.

"Because it was my order."

"Oh. Well … thanks. I had chicken and waffles and mashed potatoes and gravy and corn for lunch. It was yummy. Made a pig of myself."

"Everybody's allowed to do that once in awhile," House conceded.

As they spoke, Nancy Franklin looked from James Wilson to Roger and back again. James knew they were about to be "outed"; he could almost hear the little wheels in her head grinding away with rampant speculation. She lowered her head and turned in James' direction. In an astounded voice not much louder than a whisper, she asked him the question he knew was inevitable. He let a small smile soften his face, inviting the question. "Are the two of you … related?"

James widened the smile, let it spread. It mirrored the smile of the man in the water. "He's my brother."

She squealed. "Oh-my-God! I knew it! I knew it! You're brothers! Oh-my-God, Dr. Wilson … that's wonderful! Roger has a brother! He's not all alone. Oh … that is so … _wonderful_!"

Wilson rolled his eyes, shook his head and dipped his forehead into a cupped hand. "I wasn't keeping it a secret, really," he explained. "I just wanted him to myself for awhile after I found out he was here."

"Oh I understand, Dr. Wilson! I understand! This is the best news I've heard in years! Oh, I think I'm going to cry!" When she looked up again, tears were indeed running down her cheeks. "Who else knows?"

In the water, Roger was all smiles. "I do! I'm pretty good at keeping secrets!" he shouted.

Sitting next to them, even Gregg House shook his head and offered a brief smile, then withdrew it like Excaliber from the stone. He hated to tarnish his reputation.

"Does Billy know?" Nancy asked.

Wilson shook his head. "No, not yet, but he probably would if he wasn't on night shift. You don't pull the wool over that guy's eyes for a minute."

Nancy laughed. "Oh … he will be so delighted. May I tell him? I get off in an hour, and he should be up by the time I get home."

Wilson chuckled. "Sure. He's one of the first people I'd want to know about it."

"Thanks." Impulsively, Nancy leaned over and kissed Wilson on the cheek. "Thanks! Wow! Oh, I'm so excited!" She leaned over the edge of her chair and picked up the pager that lay there encased in a plastic bag. She took it out and punched in a number. "It's time for your brother to get out of there now. He's been prunifying long enough."

Two minutes later, a tall blonde orderly strode into the pool area and nodded a greeting. He had a large white Turkish towel over one shoulder. He turned off the motor to the pool's swirling motion and the water stilled. "Time to come out of there, man!" He called in a friendly tone, and Roger grasped the side of the pool. The blonde lifted him from the water with the same care he would have given a child. The big man discarded the swim ring and placed Roger gently in the wheelchair, straightened his thin legs carefully also, and covered his shoulders with the towel. "Let's get you to your room, Bozo!" He grinned and they started off.

"Jerry, don't call me 'Bozo', dammit!" Roger groused. As the wheelchair turned the corner, they heard him call over his shoulder. "See you later, _'**BRO' **_** … **and Greg … and Nancy!"

On the deck chairs, the trio smiled happily at each other. House asked the question uppermost in his and Wilson's minds. "Nance, you're working with him … what do you think his chances are of walking again?"

Nancy Franklin thought for a moment before answering. "It's really a little too early to tell, Gregg. He's doing great in the areas of responding to the pain meds, and his injuries are also responding to treatment. He has some contracture in both knees, but I think that was present before. Whatever happened when he fainted in the street hasn't been determined yet. He still doesn't remember anything about it other than the fact that it happened. He's still in some pain, but much less than when he was first admitted. We need to build up his stamina a little more before starting physical therapy. The pool seems to have helped him a lot, but he should come down here every day."

"What about massage therapy?" Wilson asked.

"Funny you should ask me that …" Nancy said. "It seems he has himself a 'girlfriend' who is going to take over his care and do just that." Her eyes were twinkling and she smiled at the look on his face. "It's okay … it's just that with all that's been happening with him, and all the other leg-injury cases on that ward lately, it slipped my mind about talking to you about it."

House and Wilson both stared at her curiously.

"Maria Colby has been working with paraplegics and quadriplegics down there, and Roger sort of looks up to her as some kind of angel. He formed an attachment to her right away, and she's a little in love with him too. PPS is so rare nowadays, and it makes him a special case. We're going to have to learn from his responses as we go along. Maria's going to take over his case and help him get onto his feet if she can. Why don't you talk to her? She comes on at three, and she's gonna love it when she finds out he's your brother. She told me he reminds her of someone … just wait 'til she finds out who!"

Wilson sighed with relief and stole a glance across to House. Their eyes met and Gregg gave his friend a small nod of support.

Nancy Franklin pushed out of her chair and made ready to leave them. "I'm so happy for you, Jimmy … I can't begin to tell ya … and Billy is going to love this!" She kissed his cheek and then turned to Gregg House. "Hey, 'Sexy' … hang in there, and keep the beer cold. I'll see you later … and be careful walking out of here … this floor is really slippery!" Looking around the empty room to be certain they were not observed, she planted a kiss on House's cheek also, laughing quietly at his look of almost-horror. "Don't be such a grump!" She told him with a parting giggle. "You know you love it!"

When she'd gone, Wilson turned to House with a sigh. "That girl actually likes you! I just don't understand it Guess I don't have to worry about Rodge too much, do I?"

House shook his head and wrinkled his nose in a manner that said: "No shit Sherlock?" without words.

Wilson grinned and got out of his chair. "C'mon … we'll go up to my office and I'll renew your scrip. There's something I want to run by you anyway, and for that, I'd like four walls and privacy."

"Oh yeah? Okay … give me a minute …" House began to lever himself out of the flimsy chair and came gradually to his feet, jabbing the handle of the cane at his side and pausing to get his bearings. Seeing Wilson pause also in the usual protective mode, he motioned him forward with a flip of his left hand. "Go ahead … I'm coming."

Wilson said nothing for a moment, watching closely as House got his legs under him and struggled for balance. _"You_ go ahead … and _I'm_ coming!" He groused. "Remember what Nance said about this floor! I certainly don't need to nurse you back from a broken hip!" He knew exactly what House was muttering to himself when he saw the man's bottom lip curl over his teeth, but he let it pass as House moved across the floor gingerly in front of him.

They caught the nearest "up" elevator and landed at the cross junction of corridors a short distance from House's office. They bypassed House's suite and continued to the heavy oak door with Wilson's name on it. It was not locked. When things had gotten a little dicey earlier, no one had bothered to check it. House preceded Wilson inside, and Wilson flipped the catch as he closed the door behind him.

House went directly to the old couch and lowered himself onto it with a sigh. "Ahhh … my leg sure likes this a lot better than those damned aluminum lawn chairs!" He grumbled.

Wilson looked up, appraising. "Sore?"

"Yeah, a little. How about you? Still feeling the leftovers from this morning?"

Wilson shook his head, digging in his middle desk drawer for a prescription pad. He found one, pulled it out and flopped it on the blotter. "Not really. I feel pretty good now. A bellyful of pasta helped a lot though. Do you realize neither of us had anything to eat for over twenty-four hours?" He stared across at Gregg with an astounded expression.

The blue eyes crossed in a comic expression of … "DUH!"

"Well, yeah, moron! How would I not? My stomach thought my throat got cut!" House's hand went to his thigh, rubbing at the annoying sparks from his frayed nerve endings. There was one pill left in the bottle and it was time to take it. He dug it out, palmed it, swallowed it dry. He leaned his head back against the rise of the sofa and closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted and very aware of another pair of eyes evaluating him silently from across the room.

Wilson watched, wondering how much of the pain House was hiding from him this time.

He finished writing out the Vicodin prescription and laid the pen down. He folded the slip of paper in half and got up from his desk. He knew from the involuntary flick at the corner of House's mouth that the other man knew he was standing close.

"I know you're dying to say something," House said. "You've been worse than my shadow ever since we got back from lunch. Either spit it out or stuff it!"

"I know you can probably quote word-for-word everything that's in my head right now, and you'd be right, but I'm going to say it anyhow." Wilson sat down beside his friend on the couch and stuffed the prescription slip into Gregg's top jacket pocket. "You can get this filled as soon as you need it. Anyway, I need to say 'thanks' for the way you handled the situation with Roger, and handled the situation with me when I was falling apart. Thanks for being there last night when I needed you, and this morning when I needed you again. I know you're a rotten son of a bitch and you take great pride in that, but nobody will ever hear it from me.

"So tell me about your leg. What's wrong?"

The abrupt change of subject caused not only House's eyes, but his mouth also, to drop open in surprise. "Wilson, so help me God, you are the damnedest Dork I ever met in my life. You hover around me like a mother hen and you watch me like a hawk. You are part chicken and part bird-of-prey. And then you come off the wall with a question you know the answer to as well as I do."

In a sing-song voice he began: "_This_ is what's the matter with my leg! I had an infarction in my thigh. It cut off the blood supply to the quadriceps muscle and …"

"_House!"_

"You asked. And you're welcome. Now. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Wilson sighed in defeat. "Ah hell!" There were times when there was just no winning with this stubborn creature, and Wilson had learned the hard way that his education in such matters was an ongoing thing. He would let the subject drop for now, but it wasn't finished yet. Instead, he launched into something Roger had mentioned to him that morning which had been niggling at his mind all day. He was a little unsure how to deal with it, because having a younger brother again after all these years was a bit unsettling. Having a younger brother who was a gay man, a homeless man, and now a disabled man, called for more than he could fit his brain around all by himself. Who better to run it by than House …

"I need to find a way to contact Julie." He did not stop to think how that would sound to House. He soon found out.

"_What?_ Why in fucking hell would you want to contact her? You out of your mind?"

"Unhhh …" Wilson shook his head, suddenly realizing what House must be thinking, and at the same time a little smug at the tone of jealousy he detected in the angry tone. "Not 'Julie' as in my soon-to-be ex-wife! I'm talking about 'Julie' … Jules … as in Roger's boyfriend."

House stared. "'Boyfriend'? You mean like 'sweetheart' … 'lover' … _OH! Oh. Yeah … Oh shit! _Him."

"Yeah. 'Him'. Why are you making it sound like a bad idea? You told Roger it was nobody's business what his choice of lifestyle was. And the other night …"

"The other night was different. Besides, anything that's not _my _idea is a _bad_ idea!"

"House, you are _so_ full of crap!"

"Not always …" Gregg affected that phony, whiney nasal slur to his voice that always pissed Wilson off no end.

"You are today!"

"Yeah … well …" He shrugged with a half lift of one shoulder and Wilson knew it was all he was going to get by way of accommodation. "I know what I told Roger, and I meant it. I was just … oh never mind. So what were you thinking?"

"Well, after you left us … remember … you were going to go see Norm Lyons. Did you?"

"Yeah. Norm said he'd have to go see your brother and see if steroids are a good idea in his case. He hasn't gotten back to me yet. So what about contacting Jules? How do you plan to go about that? Gonna go walk around in 'Cardboard City' and see what guy is dumb enough to answer to 'Julie'?"

"No, House … better than that."

"Well then, what?"

"Rodge told me they have a signal they use if they get separated."

"What kind of signal?" House's interest was on the rise. The thought of a mystery to solve always got his undivided attention.

Wilson chuckled. He couldn't help himself. Sometimes his difficult friend was so easy to read. "They fly a red flag."

"A … red … flag … ?" Skepticism sat atop his head like a ten-gallon hat.

"Yeah."

"Red flag? You mean like … Turkey? … China? … Albania? … Switzerland? … Denmark … ?"

"_House!"_

"Wha-at?"

"Shall I go on, or do you want to keep on making 'cute'?"

"Sorry. I'm listening. Go on."

"Yeah, I can tell you are … But here's what they do, and it makes sense to me. One of them goes to the city park near noon and hangs a red flag from a tree close to the center. Then they each check the park at noon every day 'til one of them finds the red flag … and that's how they find each other again. Rodge says it always works for them … especially since his legs have started to go bad. He says it's been Julie lately who's had to do all the scouting and scrounging for them, because Rodge can't keep up. He says it works especially well after they get a ride to another town. Julie hunts around for shelter and a food source, then finds the park and looks for the flag. And they meet up. Roger says Jules will be watching the hospitals because he knows Rodge has been in pain. So we need to get to the park and hang a red flag somewhere. Julie will be worried … and it's been nearly three days since they're seen each other. I was thinking maybe Cameron could …"

House's head was moving from side to side very slowly. "No. Not Cameron." He frowned. His lips were pursed, tongue peeking between them. His eyes were down and to one side, and the deep horizontal ridge at the top of his nose was furrowed and pronounced. He held one hand in mid-air, fingers splayed in a graceful ballet-type configuration that meant he was thinking and needed time. Wilson quieted and gave his friend a few moments to work it out. It was very quiet for twenty seconds. Then House looked up.

_Ford Has A Better Idea _Wilson thought with a niggle of amused affection. "What?"

"Not Cameron," House was saying. "The Wombat."

"Huh?"

"Chase."

"Chase? Why?"

House grinned nastily. His head came up and the grin narrowed to a smirk. "Because he's pretty."

"'Pretty'? Oh … I get it … I think …"

"Yeah. Who would a _gay_ guy be more likely to respond to? Someone who looks like Cameron? Or someone who looks like Chase?"

"Jesus, House … you are so rotten! But I didn't think of that. You're right." Wilson tried his best not to smile, but sometimes when Gregg got his fertile mind working on anything that had to do with a scheme, it was impossible not to follow his line of thinking and ultimately agree with everything he said. _Yield to the logic of the situation! Right, Dr. McCoy! Dammit!_

"Poor Chase. Sometimes I wonder how he puts up with you. Do you think he'd be willing to do it tomorrow?"

House snorted with sarcastic laughter. "Ah hell, Chase loves me! I say he'll be happy to do it tomorrow … if you buy him lunch for another week!"

Wilson leaned forward. The remark did not warrant a response. He got up from the couch to return to his desk, but hesitated when he saw House's face darken and the crease between his eyes penetrate to new depths. The slight movement of the couch when Wilson shifted his weight had been enough to make Gregg flinch. He had not been expecting it. Wilson settled back and frowned.

House glared back, but said nothing. The palm of his right hand lay positioned flat against the side of his leg near the infarction site. Wilson sat very still and maintained eye contact with a fierce determination that House could neither tolerate nor justify. When the blue eyes shifted to the side and dropped, searching for a point of fascination in the pattern of the carpet, Wilson relented. "Do you think you can walk it out?" He finally asked.

"Yeah, probably. It's just a nuisance. You spend way too much time worrying about the cripple, and not enough time taking care of the concerns of James Wilson. You really need to mind your own business."

Wilson's gaze shifted fractionally, and he touched House's arm in a lingering caress with a single finger.

"Dammit, I _am_ taking care of the concerns of James Wilson! You _are_ my business. I don't know how to make it any plainer than that."

James had finally gotten the last word.

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	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 "Gregg Screws Up"

House spent the late afternoon hiding in his office.

He had refilled the Vicodin scrip at the hospital pharmacy and took two of the pain-neutralizing little pills moments after the pharmacy guy shoved the vial across the counter in front of him. He rode back up in the elevator mulling over the last words Wilson had spoken to him and contemplating each nuance in his friend's voice as he remembered them. Actually, he wasn't sure what to think, and Wilson hadn't elaborated. Gregg was no more prepared for that statement than he'd been when Wilson had moved suddenly on the couch, causing the frayed nerve endings to send his leg into spasm and his pain through the roof. Neither could he tolerate the stricken expression on his friend's face at his agonized reaction, and Wilson's: "_Oh God! I've just run over a puppy," _ look. He'd gotten out of there as soon as and as quickly as his leg could tolerate his weight again.

Right at this moment, all hell was breaking loose over in Wilson's office. Cuddy was there, the ducklings were there, and half the Oncology staff was over there in that cramped office space in celebration of the startling news about the young man in the ward on the second floor. House had seen Maria Colby pushing Roger Wilson in his wheelchair. Roger the celebrity. Nurse Brenda and Debbie-from-Accounting also hurried past his front door on their way to join the festivities. Too many bodies in one place jostling one another, was not for him, especially with the way his leg felt. He sat with it propped gingerly on the bookcase while John Henry Giles spun lazily on his turntable and the big red ball worried back and forth between his hands. His mood was dark. He was certain Wilson had warned them all to leave him alone, at his urgent request, and he sat in solitude, as usual, keeping his own counsel and distracting himself with his music and his mental meanderings until things calmed down again next door. He could see flashes of movement from time to time out his rear door, across the balcony and through Wilson's glass door. He shuddered to think of all those bodies wrapped around him. He was content to allow Wilson this moment, hoping he would be granted the last word sometime later this evening.

Gregory House closed his eyes, swaying to the blend of piano, sax, trumpet, bass and clarinet, and let the provocative, mind-blowing words from two hours ago float on his imagination once again.

"_I _am_ taking care of the concerns of James Wilson! You _are_ my business! I don't know how to make it any plainer than that."_

Like food for a starving man, Gregg believed he could live the rest of his life on just those words alone.

Next door, the celebration chugged forward. Music from the Bose penetrated now and again, and the rise and fall of intermittent laughter reached his ears and then faded in the distance.

After what seemed like hours, the Vicodin finally began to do its job. Exhausted, House dozed, propped upright in his chair. The red ball tumbled from his hands and rolled unnoticed across his office floor …

And the sun tumbled out of the sky.

At 9:00 p.m. he awoke to the sensation of a warm hand placed gently between the crook of his neck and his shoulder. Wilson. At last. The party must be over. Celebrants gone, Roger back on the ward.

"Hey …"

He'd been asleep for hours, thanks to those life-affirming little white pills, and dreaming sporadically. His mouth was dry and felt like cotton. He straightened in his chair too quickly. He'd given himself a stiff neck too. And, oh my God! His leg!

"_Ow! Fuck!"_

"House?"

His own fault! He'd gone to sleep with his foot propped on the edge of the bookcase. Bad move. His leg was bent at the knee, but slightly in the wrong direction. The ligaments were stretched all wrong, his knee aching, thigh sending out sharp angry signals like a staccato finger too hard on a telegraph key. He grabbed the arms of his chair in a death grip, fighting it. "Oh … Son of a bitch!"

Wilson leaned over him. "What is it? Leg again?"

"Yeah," he gasped, "and my neck and my back and my ass … Jesus!" He could not move his foot voluntarily from the bookcase, and his back felt like it had a knife sticking out of the middle when he tried to lean forward to hoist it down. "Wilson …" He found himself breathless and in total misery. "I can't move my leg. My back hurts and my ass is asleep. Lift it down off the bookcase, will you?" He grimaced. "Fuck a duck!"

Wilson slipped one hand under House's knee, the other beneath his ankle. Carefully keeping the leg straight, he lifted it away from the bookcase and eased his foot to the floor. House's body turned in the chair, following the motion of the stiffened limb, knowing it dictated every action of which he was capable.

"Ahh … hurts! Crap!" House leaned back a little, working his head slowly in a circle to ease the stiffness in his neck. He flexed both shoulders and arched his back until the pain of non-movement released him from its grasp. "The 'pleasures' of getting older," he groused. "Every freaking hinge in my body feels like it's rusted fast!" He made no move to shift his leg. It remained at a stiff downward angle in front of him like a dead weight; useless and wooden, sticking out from his body. His hands gravitated to his thigh. His breath hissed between his lips. "I can't move the damned thing!" The blue eyes were bleak, questioning, beseeching Wilson with a look. "I can't move it!"

Wilson did not answer. He was backing away toward House's desk, hand on the phone, picking up the receiver, speed-dialing a number.

The response on the other end was quick. "Cuddy here …"

"It's Wilson. I'm glad you haven't left yet. I need a wheelchair in House's office. No fuss. Just get one up here!"

"Something's happened?"

"Yeah. Probably nothing too serious, but he can't move."

"You caught me just in time, Dr. Wilson. I was on my way out the door. I'll be there as soon as I can." The phone clicked.

Wilson turned back again and knelt by Gregg's side. He grasped the chair arm, very conscious of his friend's personal space, not taking the chance of inflicting pain by laying a hand on or near his leg. Above him, House's eyes were pain-filled now, and dark with humiliation at his body's betrayal. "Cuddy's coming," Wilson said, "with a wheelchair. Don't get all pissed off. It's necessary."

"Yeah, I know. Fuck! I _hate_ this!"

Wilson nodded, immediately understanding that House's declaration had nothing to do with his decision to call Cuddy and have her bring the wheelchair. "I know you do. I'm sorry."

"Yeah … yeah … comes under the category of 'shit happens'. But don't you dare admit me! Either one of you! Take me down in the elevator and straight to the car. I'll be all right again, once I get the son of a bitch moving. And I can do that okay after you get me home! I didn't hurt it … I just sat too long with the knee bent all wrong. You get that, Wilson?"

Wilson sighed. "Yeah, I get it! But shut up now, for crying out loud, or you're going to talk yourself right into an overnight admission for observation!"

The glare Wilson got back was a look of pure evil, but House did indeed shut up.

Two minutes later, Cuddy was at the door, knocking on the glass.

Wilson stood up and strode across to her, opening the door to admit the wheelchair and their boss, who was slightly breathless with alarm. "House?" She abandoned the wheelchair at the door, walked quickly to his side and bent down.

Gregg's eyes went straight to her cleavage, desperate to diffuse the situation. He blew out an appreciative breath between his teeth with pursed lips and billowed cheeks. "Ummmmm … yeah … wow! Bet you could stash a fortune in there!" He looked up into her worried eyes with childish innocence. Only the line of sweat across his forehead belied his attempt at creating a diversion.

Cuddy straightened and turned partly toward Wilson. "Shut up, House!" She said. "If I want your two cents, I'll ask for it! If you can still insult people, you can't be hurt too badly! What happened, Dr. Wilson? What the hell did he do to himself this time?"

"According to him, he went to sleep with his foot propped on the edge of the bookcase. Must have sat like that for a couple of hours. I found him that way. He can't move his leg. He may have pulled something in the knee. I need to get him out of here."

"Okay, let's get him into the wheelchair and take him down to ER …"

"No!" House had come to the end of his "shut-up" tolerance. "No ER! And stop talking like I'm not here! Take me home! I mean it!"

Cuddy and Wilson eyed one another at length, silently comparing opinions. Would Cuddy override him? Wilson thought not. House was notorious for punishing himself and doing stupid things which would compromise his disabled leg, but as a doctor, he was the best in the profession. If he had truly hurt himself, he would not be stupid enough to refuse treatment. It was very important to him to be able to walk using only the cane.

Finally, they shrugged at each other. "It's a judgment call, I guess," Cuddy said finally. "Actually, I can't see much sense letting them torture him in the ER at this time of night when you're going to be driving him home anyway. If it's not better by the time you pick him up in the morning, we'll send his stubborn butt for an MRI. Where are you parked?"

"Parking garage," Wilson replied, "right next to the elevator."

"Okay, let's take him down there. Can you see that he gets settled at home okay?"

"Certainly …" Wilson did not mention that he fully intended to stay.

"Okay," Cuddy conceded. "You'll check his knee before you leave for the night?"

"Of course."

Stubbornly silent, Gregg let them help him into the chair. Wilson raised the right leg rest to keep his knee straight. House let his attention shift angrily between the two. So intense, both of them! And this was on his behalf? When had he become so pathetic to cause both his best friend _and_ his boss to become this attentive? It had been a day of celebration for Wilson, and for Cuddy too, obviously happy to learn the amazing story of James' younger brother. Inwardly, House regretted spoiling its afterglow for them.

He had not allowed himself to get up and go over there earlier, even though he might have liked to. For some reason he was also feeling a tad jealous of Roger. He had no reason for it, but there it was. When Wilson was with his brother, all his attention was not centered upon him … and House was not yet certain how he would deal with that. He did feel a little guilty that he was letting Roger's presence nag too insistently at his consciousness all of a sudden. Was there something about the young man that was setting all his instincts on edge out of the blue? He needed to think about that. It was a little unsettling, but he knew his mind would tinker with it until he found a resolution.

As a rule Gregg welcomed solitude. He did not need to mask his pain when he was alone. He'd lingered apart from the others because he was feeling a little sorry for himself and feared messing up his leg again. Still, he'd ended up causing himself more pain than if he'd actually joined in to share snacks and coffee and camaraderie. Determined to mask his thoughts, he fought back the heat of the anger which might betray him further. No matter what he did, no matter how much he tried to avoid it, he was vulnerable to injury, whether inflicted by circumstance or by his own stupidity. The fact that he had fallen asleep in the wrong position was giving him more grief than he might possibly have imagined. Whether living with unkind fate, fighting the pain in his leg, or being pissed off at the untimely arrival of Roger, none of it did anything whatsoever to change the circumstances. If, after nearly seven years of disability, he could not learn to manage his life as a cripple, then he deserved whatever insult or injury befell him. His head told him Roger Wilson had nothing to do with it. His heart told him otherwise. But his heart was no longer a very good judge of anything, was it?

Now, if only his fucking leg would tame down! He needed to feel "south of normal" again. Clumsily he dug in his pocket for his meds, took two of them in blatant disregard for the two people standing there watching.

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105


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11 "Don't Go!"

Wilson drove slowly back to House's condo, alarmed and aware that in the seat across from him, House was quietly losing it. Gregg was moving like a zombie, his head turned away, eyes glued to the moving lights beyond the darkened window. Wilson knew his friend's thoughts were in turmoil, control slipping rapidly. His body had betrayed him, not only in front of Wilson, but also in front of their boss. He was angry, ashamed, humiliated, blaming himself for the incident over which he had no control. Much to her credit, Lisa Cuddy had not stuck around after they'd got Gregg downstairs and into the Pacifica. She took the dreaded wheelchair, flipped it around and reentered the elevator with it, throwing an understanding glance over her shoulder in Wilson's direction. For his part, Wilson closed the car door on House, seated as comfortably as possible in the passenger seat, and met Cuddy's eyes in appreciation as the elevator door closed and she disappeared from view.

By the time they arrived at the underground garage on East Side Drive, Gregg House had straightened in his seat and was massaging his knee between the palms of his hands. His leg was bent now, finally relaxing from the punishment it had suffered in House's office. Wilson watched from the corner of his eye as he pulled into the slot beside the big Envoy and shut down the Pacifica's engine. He did not speak, but sat still, content to wait out any unexpected turns in House's black mood.

Finally, Gregg straightened in his seat and glanced resentfully across at his companion. "What!"

Wilson shrugged with a slight tilt of his head. "Waiting for you to let me know when you're ready to go inside."

"Whenever you are!" Came the petulant reply. "I'm fine."

"Seems I've heard those words before," Wilson remarked calmly. "So I'm assuming you think you can walk?"

"I can walk, God damn it! I can walk, I can dance, I can run, I can jump rope … I can fly!"

Wilson sat frozen, watching Gregory House come apart at the seams. He did not dare allow the man to see how frightened he was. Not for himself, but for the tortured creature staring wild-eyed in his direction. Finally he spoke; the only words he could think of to diffuse the situation.

"House! Let it go! Let it go _now_!"

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Wilson got him into the condo with little effort. House was able to walk on his own, although his gait was a travesty, and the flexibility of his knee was sadly diminished. He was silent, perhaps embarrassed over his outburst in the car. But if he was, Wilson was certain his friend would never admit it. Gregg was concentrating mainly on his movements, but heading directly for the bedroom, bypassing his usual perch on the couch or the leather lounge chair. Wilson did not question, just followed him closely, gathered up his discarded button-down shirt and suit coat and waited until he'd seated himself on the edge of the big bed. Wilson dropped the shirt and jacket on the comforter, assisted the other man to turn, then lifted his legs gently onto the bed also. He pulled off Gregg's left sneaker and let it clunk to the floor, but carefully untied, gapped the laces and slid the right one off with a tenderness that spoke of long devotion.

Only for a moment did their focus meet across the space between them. Then the blue eyes drifted away and fastened on the thick blue draperies at the window. House's face looked vacant: "nobody home". Wilson had no idea what he might be thinking. He did not ask. He drew the extra pillow down toward House's right leg. "I'm going to lift you a little … it may hurt …"

Nothing.

Wilson picked up the leg and settled the pillow beneath it. A sharp intake of breath was the only indication of discomfort. "I'll be on the couch," he said. "Call me if you need anything. I'm going to leave the door open." He turned.

"No! Don't go!"

Wilson paused and turned, not knowing what to expect. "What?"

House lifted his arm from his side and extended his hand, palm up. In the cramped little world of his stunted social skills, it was the closest he could come to a plea for his friend to return to his side.

To Wilson it was a cry for help. He walked back and sat down on the edge of the bed, extending his hand to clasp Gregg's. "What is it now, House? I'm tired."

"Yeah, I can tell. Tired of me, mostly."

Wilson did not offer the platitude House was fishing for. He sat and met the hollow blue-eyed stare with his own. He sighed. He had nothing to offer that would not sound trite. "What would you have me say?"

"You do look tired, Jimmy. You've been sick and I haven't even asked how you're feeling. Your life is suddenly turned upside down by a brother you haven't seen in ten years, and then he turns up as another crippled guy in your life. Like you need another one of those! And your so-called best friend is going off the deep end and splashing shit all over you. I … wish I could think of something cool so you'd know it's not just another load of crap for you to clean up behind me. But I … don't know if there's that much decency left in me."

Wilson's tears burned to the surface upon hearing that halting admission. He looked up and away from the stricken eyes, fighting for control and losing it regardless. "House, I don't expect anything from you that you don't have to give. I don't need you to faun over me or take care of me. That's not you. The only thing I need is what you're willing to part with. Let me be the 'Mother Hen'. That hat doesn't look very good on you." Wilson grinned at the startled look on House's face, wishing he had a tissue, but at the same time realizing he was unashamed of the tears splashing onto his cheeks. "Dammit, Roger is important to me. He's my brother! But he chose to walk away a long time ago, and I got over it. Mostly. You're not just some run-of-the-mill crippled guy; you're my best friend who just happens to be a limping twerp …"

"You're not pissed off at me?"

"Not any more than usual. I'd be pleased if you took better care of yourself, but harping at you about it all the time is like spitting into the wind. It just comes back to smack you in the face. What happened tonight was your own fault, and you know it. Do you need your meds?"

"Yeah."

Wilson let go of House's hand to reach to the pocket of the discarded jacket. "Here you go."

"Thank you."

"Sure. Now get some sleep. There's lots to do tomorrow. I have appointments all day, and I have to check with Stan Ralls about things that have been happening since I've been off. You're going to talk to Chase about hunting down Jules, right?"

"Uh huh. Don't go out on the couch. Crash here with me."

"You sure? I can do that, I guess …"

It was midnight. They were both asleep by 12:30 a.m., on separate sides of the bed; both fully clothed.

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107


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12 "The Signal"

In the morning they showered together in amicable silence. The only sound was the cascading water. If anyone had bothered to ask, they would have said the reason was to save time. They would have been lying. In truth, they did it because both were curious to look at the other without clothes on. They did nothing at all which might have hinted at intimacy. The time was not right. They explored each others' bodies with their hands and their eyes, and they lathered one another with liquid Dove and TRESemme shampoo. Wilson shaved his face while nearly inundated with body wash bubbles. House did not join in the experience. They lingered beneath the hot water in the custom shower, and Wilson encouraged House to lean on him more than he leaned on the securely installed grab rails. Later, they dried off with luxurious Turkish towels.

Wilson paused when House hitched his breath suddenly and shifted his weight. He placed the palm of his hand lightly on the hip area of House's bad leg, painful and bent at the knee, imploring with soft eyes for permission to examine the area of the large scar. He had seen the injury when it was fresh and still draining and still bandaged and open and raw. He had not seen it healed. Surprisingly, House nodded, allowing him to touch the infarction site. House kept his eyes closed and Wilson knew it was still an open wound in House's mind, still as fresh in memory as the day it had happened and no one had believed him when he told them how bad the pain was. House flinched minimally when Wilson widened his palm and extended his fingers in an attempt to conceal the ugly, disfiguring scar. He could not cover it all with one hand. _Jesus, Gregg! _ He shook his head sadly and House sighed in resignation. Wilson straightened and lifted his hand to touch House's face for one brief moment. His silence spoke louder than any words.

For breakfast they had toast and freshly brewed coffee. Neither of them looked at the thick morning newspaper that lay flopped on the kitchen table. The only thing either man looked at during that time was the face attached to the body sitting across from him, each man pondering in his own mind how important they had suddenly become to one another. Where in hell could something as strange and indefinable as this _thing _between them possibly go? And for how long, and to what end?

At 7:30 a.m. they left for work in the Pacifica. House would have offered to drive, but knew he would get shot down, so why bother, right? They were still quiet as they drove toward the center of town. Neither mentioned the events of the night before, mutually deciding it was history and best left to rot in its grave. House did not complain about any extra pain in his leg, so Wilson did not worry the subject either.

It was still bitterly cold, but the sun was out, the last of the snow had gone, and there was no wind. Just past Vince Crane's Chrysler dealership and a few blocks from the hospital, Wilson turned toward House in order to scrutinize his friend's scruffy face. "How come you don't drive the Chevy Corvette anymore?"

House blinked and pulled a pained face as though he'd just been asked if he were about to undergo a root canal. He recovered quickly, however, and scowled across the seat at Wilson. "Wow! That came right out of left field, didn't it?"

Wilson shrugged. "Not really. I've often wondered. I haven't seen the thing but once or twice since you got it. You sell it?"

House shook his head. "Naw … it's in Billy's garage … up on blocks."

"Billy Travis's garage? Why?"

"Yep. It'll probably be there until hell freezes over, and you'd know why if you thought about it."

"I have no idea." Wilson shrugged. "Because it messes with your leg?"

"Yah! Can't drive a straight stick anymore," House admitted darkly. "I knew it was going to be pretty much of a problem when I saw it wasn't automatic. Had to try it though! Had to be the tough guy and drive it anyway. But you kind-of need both legs in proper working order to handle the clutch-brake thingie. Third or fourth time I took it out for a run, my leg spazzed out and I came _this close_ …" he held his thumb and index finger so close together they nearly touched … "to driving the bastard right through the Pearly Gates!"

Wilson's jaw dropped. "You never said anything …"

"What was there to say? _'Hey! That stupid ass, House, killed himself trying to drive a manual-transmission car! Can't do that with a bum leg … poor dumb dead bastard!'_ Gregg's nose wrinkled in disdain and an eye crunched shut in an "ouch" expression. "I figured I'd beach the whale before the whale beached _me_!"

"So … riding around on that ugly yellow suicide machine you bought with _my_ money is better … how?"

"My leg is mostly just along for the ride when I'm on the bike. My hands do all the work and take all the credit. A lot safer that way for all concerned! Besides, I paid you back! _Hey!_ _Wilson!_ You gonna drive right past work and keep going?"

Wilson hit the brakes and swung the wheel to the left, dipping the Pacifica across traffic and into the entrance of the hospital's parking garage. He gulped. He'd damn near hit a delivery van. He pulled into the nearest _Handicap_ slot and killed the engine. He did not dare look over at House. The Pacifica purred as it powered down and settled into the slot like a contented housecat. They grabbed their brief-case-sport-bag carryalls and prepared to disembark. House muttered something about … "not _all_ suicidal drivers out there are cripples" … but Wilson did not ask him for clarification.

Lisa Cuddy was waiting for them just past the entrance where the carpeted corridor opened onto the rear of the administrative wing and the clinic exam rooms. Standing with a determined look on her face and arms folded across her chest, the diminutive hospital administrator had arrived early again to check on her boys. She had the suspicious deportment of a prison security guard and the scowl of a barroom bouncer.

House took one look and nudged Wilson's forearm with his free hand. "Incoming!" He growled. "Three o'clock low!"

Wilson laughed. He couldn't help it. By some miracle, he saw he was beginning to get welcome vestiges of his best friend back.

Both men came abreast of Cuddy at the same moment, and she fell into step beside them like a drill sergeant. Not one to be distracted by appearances, of course, her eye was on their ease of movement … or lack thereof.

"You both seem to be … 'no worse for wear' … if I may borrow the oldest cliché in the book." She looked pointedly at House's leg. "You look like you're doing pretty well … for a man who went out of here in a wheelchair last night. What'd you do? Go see a faith healer? Or an Indian medicine man?"

House raised an eyebrow and stopped dead in the corridor to confront her in a calm, unruffled manner. "No, Dr. Cuddy, not quite. Wilson called my favorite hooker from his cell phone on the way home. She rode in on a magic carpet and was there to meet us when we got to my place. It's amazing what a little voodoo and hocus pocus can do for a man. She was there for the better part of the night, you see. We took turns! Next question?"

Wilson's face was like a blank page from "The Book of Innocence" when Cuddy turned to look at him. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he could do nothing but shake his head beneath her disgruntled stare. "I … I …"

"Don't try to defend yourself, Dr. Wilson," she said demurely, "it'll only make it worse."

Smugly silent, House rounded gracefully on his cane and continued down the corridor. Cuddy let him go and shifted her attention to Wilson. "I'd like to see you in my office a minute." She turned around once to watch the retreating back of Gregory House disappear around the corner toward the elevator. _How does that son of a bitch DO that? _

Wilson dropped all pretense of innocence and followed her through the heavy front door of her inner sanctum. "It's about Roger, isn't it?"

"Yes it is, Dr. Wilson." She went behind her desk and pulled out her chair. Sat down and faced him. There was a manila folder on the desk and she folded her hands on top of it. "Sit down … please. How are you feeling, James? You had a nasty session there for awhile. Are you okay, and are you taking the Urimax?"

He smiled a little and settled into one of the straight-backed chairs facing her desk. "I'm good. A little congested, but it's easing. It never had a chance to get a good foothold. I'm still taking the scrip you gave me. Thanks for asking."

"You're welcome. You're too valuable a commodity to me around here to allow you to be out of commission for too long. I'm happy that you're all right." She paused for a moment, and he knew she was shoring up to tackle the potentially difficult subject that must be discussed between them.

"James … I'm not sure what to do about your brother …"

Wilson raised both eyebrows, then heaved a sigh and looked off to the side for a moment. When he returned his gaze to meet her own concerned one at last, he gave the impression of a man whose mind was made up. "I know he presents a problem for you here … and you can't keep him on ward service forever. It will probably be more of a problem soon, because we're going to try to find his boyfriend and …"

Cuddy scowled. "'Boyfriend'?"

"Yeah. Roger is … gay. I guess I knew about that almost forever … but it never came up until now. He always avoided any discussion of it with the family, and then he took off and disappeared and no one ever had to address the issue. There's a 'significant other' still out there, and I've decided that the man needs to be found, and they should be reunited. Roger is worried about him, and he's sure Jules is wandering around somewhere nearby, just as worried."

"Really?" Cuddy could not keep the astonishment off her face or out of her voice. "I had no idea. He's a darling young man … bright and friendly … and so happy to know who he is, and to have his brother back in his life again. But he'll require a lot of care and a lot of therapy if he's going to be able to walk again and return to any kind of normal existence. It can only help him if we can find his 'friend' and bring him back here. He needs a lot more in his life than this hospital can provide."

"I understand," Wilson said, "and I've been thinking about it a lot since I found him again. I can't do too much for Jules, since he's no relation to either of us, but I'd like to have Roger added to my hospitalization insurance as a dependent. He can't fend for himself right now, and I'm his nearest relative. I need to take responsibility for him awhile. Maybe permanently."

Lisa Cuddy removed the manila folder from beneath her forearms and opened it in front of her. "That," she admitted with a sigh, "was going to be my next question. He's eligible, of course, to be listed as your dependant, since he would be classified as next-of-kin and handicapped as well. Is that what you wish to do?"

The brown eyes bored into Cuddy's with a strange sense of irony. "I guess you could replace Julie's name with Roger's …"

Again her face registered surprise. "Are you telling me … ?"

"Yeah … Julie and I didn't make it. She left me a week ago. Said I spent more time here at the hospital than with her. My job does consume more of my life than I'd ever realized. This is the third marriage it's broken up. And now that Roger is back, it's going to get even more complicated. Julie … my wife … would never have tolerated him for a moment. She already resented House, because I spent so much time with him right after the infarction, when he broke up with Stacy. Also, the fact that House is permanently disabled made it even worse, because she had no compassion and no time for him whatsoever. She called him names that would have made a sailor blush. Of course, Gregg couldn't have cared less about that … but the name calling would have hurt Roger a lot… so I guess it's for the best."

"For what it's worth, James, I'm so sorry about your marriage … but by the same token, extremely happy that you and Roger have found each other again. Are you sure you're all right with this? You are entitled to time off, you know that; in order to be with him, work with him … whatever you need. You have only to ask and to clear your schedule."

"Thank you."

"And you also need to sign some papers to switch dependents on your insurance." She turned the manila folder around on her desk to face him. "I had everything drawn up ahead of time. Forgive me, but I was anticipating you. The only thing I had no idea about was Julie leaving. You can sign it now, and I'll take her name off it by quitting time tonight." Her smile was sweetly deceptive.

That was what made Lisa Cuddy such a damn good boss, Wilson thought. He stood, took the pen she held out to him and scrawled his signature on four separate sheets of paper. Just that quickly, Roger Wilson became his responsibility. He wondered how it would eventually play out somewhere down the line. He wondered how it might affect what he had … what he ever _would_ have … with Gregory House …

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By the time Wilson caught up with House again, his friend had Dr. Robert Chase in his office, the Aussie sitting close to the edge of the chair on the other side of the desk. House was speaking in low tones to the younger man, and Wilson noticed that all the doors were closed and the vertical blinds were drawn. As he walked in, he could see between a few errant slats that Cameron and Foreman were both in the DD room pretending to be engrossed in separate research projects. Their eyes lifted frequently, however, to focus curiously on the closed door in obvious speculation.

As Wilson walked up to the desk, House reached into his jacket pocket and pulled forth a man's large red handkerchief, waving it in front of himself like a banner. "… and this is something similar to what they apparently use as the signal."

House and Chase both acknowledged Wilson's entrance and then went back to their consultation, or whatever it was. Chase reached across the desk and took the red square with the black pattern on it from House and stuffed it into his own pocket. Wilson stood with both hands perched on his hips and listened. Chase looked a little confused. "And I'm just supposed to pin this to the trunk of a tree in the middle of the park and wait for some homeless guy to show up?"

"Not just 'some homeless guy'!" House insisted. "He's a light-skinned black guy. He's twenty-eight years old, straight black hair, skinny, probably wearing fatigues and a pea coat. He'll be hanging around there about noon, looking for the signal. So the thing needs to be up by then. You'd better get going so you can scout around awhile. His name is Jules. Don't call him 'Julie' … that's private between him and Roger. We don't get to call him that unless they give us permission. When you find him, bring him back here and take him to Room 220 on the second floor ward. Page me … or Wilson … or call on your cell phone. Try to be your charming self and don't scare the guy off!"

House tilted his head up to include Wilson. "Anything you want to add?"

Wilson shook his head. "No …" House already knew a hell of a lot more than he did.

"Okay," House continued. He returned his focus to Chase. "Scram! Don't screw this one up!"

Chase nodded, hurried to his feet and made for the door. "On my way," he threw back over his shoulder. He disappeared into the corridor and was gone in a heartbeat.

"How, may I ask, did you … ?" Wilson began.

House grinned briefly. He hefted himself out of his chair and hop-stepped, sans cane, over to the vertical blinds between his office and the DD room. He made a great show of opening them, checking out the studious duo next door, and then hobbled back to his chair and plopped down again.

"Ah James … I've been a busy little beaver while you've been secluded in Cuddy's office with your nose stuck up her giggy-wampus …"

_"House?"_ Wilson began huffily.

House grinned up at his friend's incensed face. "Whoa … whoa … whoa, Buckaroo! I'm not mad or jealous or anything, just because you were in there making out with the boss …"

Wilson plopped down in the chair Chase had vacated, admitting House had gotten to him yet again. "You _arse!_" He mumbled, half under his breath, while Gregg's eyes sparkled with one-upmanship. It was good to see him coming back to full-fettle after yesterday's painful experience. "Where did you find the red hanky?" Wilson persisted. "How did you know what Jules looks like? He's black?"

House enjoyed his upper hand by looking smug for a moment. He then stole a quick glance into the room next door. Two pairs of eyes were glued to the glass walls. They saw him looking and smirking, and their rapt attention flitted away again. "We have an audience," House deadpanned softly. "For one thing, I got the old red handkerchief out of my locker. There's two or three of them in there. Been there since Noah used 'em to polish silverware on the Ark. One of 'em finally came in handy.

"And I know what Jules looks like because I asked Roger. _Duh! _That's the first place I went this morning when I saw you disappear into Cuddy's office. I figured it was so you could put Roger on your medical insurance, right? Smart move on your part! Anyhow, Roger told me who you should look for, and yeah, Jules is a black guy … so what? His name is 'Jules LeBeque'. And Roger said to thank you for the party last night … he loved it … he said to tell you thanks for sending somebody to look for Jules … and wanted to know when you were coming down to see him … not necessarily in that order."

Wilson could only stare in open-mouthed wonder. House had thought of everything and was letting him know it in a very unsubtle way. "Thank you."

House nodded curtly and swiveled his chair around to face the window. He did not, however, prop his legs on the bookcase again. Picking up his cane from where it was parked near the cabinet which held his expensive stereo turntable, he began to twirl it leisurely and expertly through his fingers. "Welcome. Just be careful …"

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	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13 "Finding Jules"

Robert Chase did not appreciate the cold. He did not appreciate this "gopher" mission, and he did not appreciate the fact that he'd had to park his car three blocks away and walk all the way back to the goddamn park. He stood in the middle of the exquisite hand-laid flagstone circle with one mittened hand leaning on the marble-based water fountain and the other resting on his hip. If he remembered correctly, this was a beautiful area in the summer. He'd only ever been here once or twice before, but the weather had been balmy then, and none of the trees looked like denuded prisoner-of-war survivors. Today the temperature could not have been more than twenty degrees, and the sky overhead looked like cotton balls dragged through a charcoal pit.

All around him in a large circle, dormant azalea and rhododendrons waited out the harsh downtime of winter, reminding him of tumbleweeds jammed haphazardly onto the tops of fence posts. Behind the landscaped central plaza, a ring of young maple trees gave way to that which, in summer, would be a manicured lawn where senior citizens walked their dogs, and small laughing children played tag and chased after baseballs. Now, however, it was brown and stomped down and faded looking: a lonely, brittle lava field; the surface of the moon; a darkened flood plain. Nothing moved except discarded cigarette packs and billowing pages of newsprint, tossed by careless hands and left to gather in the gutters and wrap themselves around parking meters and lamp posts.

Chase pulled the collar of his coat tighter about his throat and entertained dark thoughts of Gregory House. He'd been here since eleven o'clock, and had seen seven people pass by during that time. He knew, because he'd counted. Behind him, beyond the ring of the dead-looking azalea bushes, on the trunk of an also-dead-looking maple tree, the red lumberjack's handkerchief he'd plucked from House's outthrust hand an hour or so earlier, rested against the bark. He'd used the points of four large safety pins to pin the corners to the tree, and the thing stood out like a sore thumb from the dead browns and blacks of the winter scene.

In front of the bushes, placed strategically around the flagstone circle, stood six park benches, painted dark green, all of them filthy dirty with winter's grime. Right at the moment, they looked very inviting to Chase. It was a pain in the ass to stand around in the cold and just wait! His eyes swept the park and the streets beyond it, but the people he saw moving around hardly looked homeless. All of them were well dressed and bundled up appropriately for the weather. From time to time he swung around to check behind him and glance at the stupid red square on the maple tree. No one looked even vaguely like a person who might view it as a signal of mysterious intent.

Gradually he wandered closer to one of the benches and lowered himself gingerly onto the edge of it; the same way he'd sat like a bird on a wire on the chair in House's office.

Damn the man! Chase found himself wondering sometimes whether his boss was still coming down on him like stink-on-shit for squealing to Vogler. God! It had been a year ago. House hung onto slights like a Mastiff hung onto a bone. One would have thought he'd redeemed himself with House by now; had proved his mettle and lived down his mistake of taking the easy road … the easier, softer way!

Christ! Now he was thinking in A. A. clichés!

"Live and Let Live", "One Day at a Time", "There But For the Grace of God, Go I", and on and on and on …

His mother had tried Alcoholics Anonymous very briefly once, but after six weeks of daily meetings, nervous nail biting and paranoid quivering, she had crawled back into her protective bottle and the oblivion which had eventually killed her. She'd left him with ugly wall posters of the Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions and a dilapidated, heavily underlined copy of the Big Book: "Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path …" or some such crap … and a whole stack of fucking clichés that made him want to tear his hair out. He'd burned all that shit in the biggest bonfire he could find the fuel for.

And now Gregory House was challenging him; daring him to be better than he was. Giving him hell almost daily, and pulling him in directions he did not know if he could go. Demanding that he become a _Dok-tah!_ And here he was, in the middle of Princeton's public park at Gregory House's insistence, freezing his ass off waiting for some crummy scumbag to show up and say: "Hey man, take me to your _lea-dah! _ I'm looking for my Sugah Daddy! Like … _you_ know …"

_Ewww!_

Chase sat on the bench shivering his tail off and wishing he were anywhere else. The toes of his shoes were scuffed and dirty from the street. He could not find a decent parking place anywhere near the park, and had to walk endless city blocks (three!) to get here.

(House would have said: "Awww … poor baby!")

His watch said he'd waited more than the allotted amount of time. It was almost 12:10 now, and no one had turned up who looked anything like the description House had given him of the faggot named "Jules". He looked up and around once more. The place was deserted. Nobody in his right mind would want to piss around down here in this weather for _any_ reason!

He got up and walked around to the other side of the bench. The handkerchief was flat against the tree trunk, right where he'd pinned it. It was time to take the damned thing down and go back to work. Somebody else could try their luck tomorrow. He was damned if he would sit out here in the freezing cold again. Let Foreman freeze his balls off next time!

Chase removed his mittens and lifted the first pin from the bark, then the second and the third. When he pulled the last one, the red length of cloth came away in his hand. He snapped the pins closed one by one and put them in his pocket. Crumpled the handkerchief and shoved it in there also. Pulled his mittens back on. He turned to go back to where his car was parked, and nearly ran head-on into a thin, exotic looking black man standing almost in his shadow.

Chase jumped an inch off the ground. _"Jesus Christ!" _

The handsome, almost beautiful, kid stood and stared at him, green eyes burning into his own, making him feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. When the kid spoke, his voice was like velvet, lightly caressed with the lilt of Jamaica.

"Sorry to scare you, mon! But it is you who will take me to Rojah … correct? The red kerchief is the signal flag, no? Is he well? I have been worried."

Chase stared. The kid didn't even realize that he'd just frightened two years of life out of his only means of transportation.

"Jules? Are you Jules?" Chase stammered.

"Yah, mon, that would be me …"

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James Wilson walked slowly through the corridor on his way to the first of two major appointments he'd scheduled for the day. The first one entailed the delivery of good news to a long-time patient who had recently decided on a radical mastectomy which had lost her a breast, but saved her life.

Millie Keener was only thirty two years old and she had two young children. She'd been frightened when Wilson told her it was either the breast or her life. As a rule, doctors no longer bullied their patients into life-altering situations such as this, but rather sat them down and gave them all the facts about their cases and then let them choose the course they wanted to take in their treatments. Millie had been afraid she would no longer be attractive to her husband of ten years if she no longer had two healthy breasts. Wilson had sat with her in his office, his gentle hands holding hers, and told her in a soft voice that she needed to put more faith in her husband. If he was any kind of man, he would agree that he had not married her for her breasts for heaven's sake, but for the decent and loving woman he had seen within her when he'd first fallen in love with her. The consultation had resulted in Millie's submission to the necessary surgery the week before. Now, in the company of her husband, she awaited him in his office, newly discharged and on the mend, the two drains in her breast cavity still in place, waiting to receive the final news … good or bad … of the results of that surgery.

This was one of the rewards of being an Oncologist, James thought, and with medicine what it was becoming these days, the odds were finally leaning toward the up side, and good news was at last beginning to outweigh the bad. Millie's surgery had gotten all the cancer, even though they'd had to go up under her arm to remove some of the lymph nodes to do it. She would get better now. With light exercises to regain full use of her arm, Millie would gradually return to robust health, probably for the rest of her life. With a modern prosthetic in place, no one would ever guess that she was a "pink-ribbon" cancer survivor … unless she chose to tell.

Wilson entered his office and saw Millie Keener sitting in the patient's chair with her husband Charles standing behind her, both looking a little dour. He walked across to his desk and placed her file in the middle of it. He turned to them with a huge grin splitting his handsome face. "Young lady, I think you owe me a hug!"

Millie stood up and wrapped her arms around Charles with a moan of relief. They embraced happily, gratefully. Then she turned around and embraced James Wilson with her eyes, then with her arms, which both worked fine, and embraced him also, tears of release soaking into the shoulder of his lab coat.

It was one of his better moments when, seconds later, he shook the hand of her husband and ended up hugging him also.

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Gregg House was in his office laying out the bare bones of their next case to Foreman and Cameron when his pager went off. He pulled it out and read: "OK. Coming in."

Chase had accomplished his mission. House speed dialed Chase's cell number with his own cell phone. Chase answered at the first ring.

"Take him to Room 220. Wilson and I are on our way." House turned back to the two ducklings who looked at him curiously. "Chase is back," he said in a non-committal tone. "Stick to the new case until you've done the preliminary workups. Gotta go. Page me if you need me … but it better be a matter of life and death! Preferably life. Death is another word for ennui!" He grabbed his cane and made for the door to the corridor.

House stuck his head inside Wilson's door. "Hey! They're on their way back."

Wilson was just finishing with a man and woman who had been his first appointment of the day. He followed them out and bid them a good afternoon, and he would see them in two weeks for follow-up. Then he turned to House, all smiles. "He found Jules?"

"Uh huh. Did you think he wouldn't? Hell, Wilson, this isn't a crap shoot! Chase is a pretty boy and Jules grabbed at the bait. Let's go!"

Shoulder to shoulder they turned in the direction of the elevator. Anyone watching them might have assumed they had an appointment with destiny. Who knew!

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Two of the four beds in ward room 220 were deserted as usual. The sheets on those beds were in normal disarray. Their occupants were arguably out prowling the halls and harassing the nurses. The fourth bed was empty and stiffly made up, ready for its next patient. "Life-Support Guy" had likely taken his final journey to the Great Beyond.

When Gregg House and James Wilson arrived in the doorway, the scene that greeted their eyes was a little mushy, a little uncomfortable not only for them, but for Robert Chase who stood to one side watching the tearful reunion at Roger's bedside. No one spoke for a good five minutes, perhaps longer, while Jules and Roger clung to each other happily.

When finally the elegant Jules backed away from his lover and turned to greet those who had been kind enough to locate him, Roger was smiling through his tears. Roger's lighter-haired older brother also stood by with a silly smile on his face. "I have met Doctor Chase," Jules purred softly, "but I believe I have not had the pleasure …"

He was a blend of several exotic races, his skin a golden bronze, his eyes emerald green. Asian, African and Mid-European ancestry was obvious. He looked to be about twenty-five years old with smooth skin and slender hands with tapered fingers. He was soft-spoken and eloquent with a pronounced Jamaican accent. Jules was about 5' 9" tall, and wore his ratty fatigues and sneakers with old-world pride. His hair, however, looked like a thatch of sable crabgrass.

House and Wilson both stepped forward for introductions. "I'm Gregory House," Gregg said. He extended his hand and the two of them shook hands, looking one another over. The speculative attention the youngster paid to the instability of his bad leg and his dependent use of the cane made cold shivers cascade down House's spine. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He was not sure why. He only knew with a detached certainty that this youngster would bear watching. He intended to be the one to do it. James would be useless to him where this was concerned. He was already looking at the two more-than-friends with stars in his eyes.

"I'm James Wilson … and now I guess you know Roger's last name …"

"Oh my word! I do indeed, mon," Jules said with a grin that exposed a row of perfect white teeth. "The two of you look very much alike. The resemblance is … uncanny." He turned back to Roger, who sat on his bed looking at his friend with adoration. Jules touched Roger's cheek with the backs of his hands and Roger leaned into the caress. "Thank you for all you have done for him. His legs are not good, no?"

"He had polio when he was nine," Wilson explained. "It came back. Now he must undergo extensive therapy to be able to walk again. It's going to be a long, hard road. I hope you're both up for it."

"I'm not going anywhere, mon," Jules said. "I will help."

Wilson nodded, looking across at House who stood silent, taking in the conversation, but adding nothing of his own. Wilson frowned. It wasn't like House to remain this quiet. He wondered what his friend was thinking. "I have a big house not far from here," he continued conversationally, "and plenty of room for me and the two of you. You can both stay with me as long as you need to … however long that may be. At least until Roger's back on his feet again."

Wilson was not aware that beside him, House had taken a deep breath and held it when he'd made his offer of shelter. He did not see Gregg close his eyes in discomfort at the idea, or bite his lower lip to keep from yelling.

_No! No! Put them up at a motel … not at your home! _

Gregg House looked at his watch. He could not stand to listen to any more of this. He could almost feel James Wilson slipping away from him like a leaky rowboat slowly sinking; drifting gradually away from their closeness and into another heart-breaking family burden which might prove too overwhelming to handle. Wilson was lonely and vulnerable and was only beginning to recover from a third bad marriage. He did not need another millstone around his neck at this juncture. Gregg had to think, and this was not the place to do it. He turned on his heel, and placing his cane hard beside his right foot, pivoted toward the doorway. "If you'll excuse me," he said, "I need to go check on my staff." He inclined his head in Robert Chase's direction.

"Chase? You coming?"

Chase was more than ready to get out of there. Dutifully, he followed House out the door and down the corridor. Behind them, the conversation was animated and heating up. They would never realize House and Chase had gone. The last thing House heard before he turned the corner on his way to the elevator, was Wilson's musical laughter floating behind him from Room 220.

_I have a bad feeling about this …_

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Lisa Cuddy sat at her desk, a little day-dreamy in lieu of finishing up gathering materials for a budget meeting she had to supervise in half an hour. Preliminary discussions were already underway as a prelude to final preparations for the end of the fiscal year in June. Edward Vogler, bless his manipulative, power-hungry soul, had been right about one thing: most hospitals were indeed at their best when run as businesses. Princeton-Plainsboro itself, fortunately, had always been the recipient of private funding and inherited legacies bequeathed by wealthy benefactors and secret entrepreneurs. Their constraints, therefore, were not quite so strict. The withdrawal of Vogler's $100,000,000 had indeed stung, but it had not endangered anything that hadn't already been in the works before he got there. They had retained Gregory House and James Wilson on staff, and she also, had been reinstated, thanks to the board's final vote giving Vogler the boot. Budgetary restraints, however, were always a top priority with any hospital which sought to serve its patients rather than its staff. That meant discussions. Discussions ad nauseam! _How_ to spend the money. _When_ to spend the money. _Where_ to spend the money. And _Why_!

Cuddy did not look forward to these meetings-cum-debates, but they were a necessary evil. She'd taken a late lunch at her desk again, a once-in-awhile proposition which was fast becoming a habit. She didn't care for it much, but on days like this when there were so many irons in the fire she hardly knew which one to address first, it was necessary. Earlier, she'd delved into Dr. Wilson's personnel records and pulled Mrs. Julia Keyser Wilson's name off his insurance and substituted the name of Philip Roger Wilson. Easy. Wilson's records were now up to date and that worry was over with.

She'd also gone back 365 days in the hospital's operations records and studied every request for services and equipment over the past year in order to be current with normal procedures and recent expenditures. The research had taken her most of the week. She'd researched medical advances and state-of-the-art diagnostic equipment in hopes of staying one step ahead of any probable high-tech systems proposals, and totaled all of PPTH's considerable monetary resources. She'd kept the accounting office busy for two whole days. Her briefcase was bulging, but she was certain she was on top of anything the board members could throw at her, and confident she would be able to meet and diffuse any procedural problems. She took a last bite from her soggy tuna salad sandwich and wrapped what remained back in its wrapper. She drained her bottled water and wiped her hands on a paper towel. Her digital clock clicked over another minute.

The weekend was fast approaching, and this week she had a tennis date and plans for a leisurely dinner at a fashionable restaurant, and then a late movie. She needed downtime to get away for awhile and have a conversation with someone whose every thought was not taken up with hospital protocol and band-aid counts!

Lisa finished straightening her desk and sat back in her chair, staring across the expanse of the large office and through the big door at the entrance. The lobby and clinic area were busy as always. People milled around looking for information, a sympathetic ear or just a friendly smile. One by one, faces would change position, reappear in the waiting room, and then move again as their owners took their turns in the exam rooms. These faces would then be replaced by an unending stream of newer ones, and the process would continue like a tape on continuous loop.

As she watched absently, a familiar presence detached itself from the rest of the nameless crowd like a pasture-grubby thoroughbred separating from a herd of mustangs. He limped ponderously out of one of the exam rooms to halt near the waiting area with a clipboard in his free hand. Cuddy's head came up, senses wailing a red alert.

_House?_

Even in his normal state of elegant scruff, he stood out like the gaunt patriarch he was. Working the clinic without being threatened? Or at the very least, prodded strenuously? Cuddy straightened in her chair, watching him hawk-like, making sure she wasn't hallucinating. The statuesque man in question was indeed Dr. Gregory House, complete with painful limp and strong wooden side-companion.

Cuddy continued to stare. _My God! Somebody must be holding an Uzi on him from behind one of the potted plants!_

While she watched, House raised his clipboard-encumbered hand over his head and pointed the clip end of it in the direction of a middle-aged man occupying one of the waiting room chairs. A few words were spoken, and then House tipped the clipboard backward in a beckoning gesture. He lowered his arm again, and using it and the clipboard as a rudder, turned laboriously and walked back to the exam room he had just vacated. The man from the waiting room followed quietly and the door closed behind them.

Cuddy blinked. If she'd had more time, she might have spied on him, checked to find out what the hell was going on. She was certain he had not turned over some new leaf of martyred responsibility, nor had he likely relented in any way to make up some of his previously ignored clinic hours. Something smelled to high heaven. House never did anything without a reason. She picked up her phone and dialed the front desk.

"Brenda? This is Lisa Cuddy. What time did Dr. House sign in for clinic duty?"

"Hold on a sec, Dr. Cuddy …" There was a clunk on the counter, and the line went quiet for a moment. "Dr. Cuddy? He came on at 2:45 p.m."

Lisa sighed. "Thanks, Brenda." She hung up, perplexed. He'd been there an hour. Why hadn't she noticed him before?

Reluctantly, Cuddy picked up her briefcase and walked out of her office. The exam room into which he had disappeared still had its door was closed, and it was almost time for the budget meeting. She made a note in her head to ask Wilson what the hell was up when she saw him upstairs in a few minutes …

"_He's what?"_

"You heard me. He's in the clinic. Did he lose a bet to you? Did you threaten to patronize one of his hookers?"

"What?" James Wilson was as puzzled as Lisa Cuddy. She knew him well enough to see he was not in some idiotic conspiracy with House to keep her in the dark. His beautiful eyes were wide as saucers, and his chin was nearly on his chest. Wilson was just not that good an actor!

The third floor conference room was filling up. Coffee cups being filled from the urn; a donut here, a Danish there. Good-natured joking. Quiet laughter. The clink of creamers and sugar bowls and hospital silverware. Lisa Cuddy walked to the head chair and sat down.

The buzz of conversation died slowly away. Board members took their seats, looked across at her with respect. Wilson was the only one with a furrowed brow.

"Shall we get this meeting started?"

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	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14 "House is _Where?_"

House needed to think. Big time!

He found that he was at loggerheads with himself. Not a pleasant place to be, especially when the figure-eight argument inside his own head kept coming back around to James Wilson and the nasty premonition that James was going to be badly hurt, just because he was who he was.

Gregg had tried walking the corridors to do his thinking, but his ingrained habit of using the corridors for lurking rather than retrospection or introspection … or both … put a damper on the process. A single circuit of that area had started a fire-burn in his leg that would not be stilled, so he searched for other methods of finding sanctuary.

He returned to his office and the big-red-ball-tossing. Five minutes after that, all three ducklings were back there, gathering in the DD Room, full of ideas, personal insults and ineffective debates. He had a feeling he was about to be intruded upon by all three, and he did not want to be bothered. He rose from his chair with a pained grunt and shouldered through to the corridor again. He could feel their stares burning a hole in the middle of his back when he swept past their door.

He was beginning to feel some hunger, but his stomach was in much the same turmoil as his brain. The cafeteria and its general confusion and clanking around did not tempt him. He could eat when the more important things were taken care of, so he headed instead to the men's room for a pee. Maybe in there …

But while he stood in front of the urinal emptying out, two other staff members chose that particular time to charge in like the FBI on a drug bust and drop their zippers on either side of him. Both doctors kept up a clinical banter with accompanying splashes on porcelain that had him rolling his eyes. He shook off the last of his own droplets, hunched backward for a moment, and zipped up. He washed his hands thoroughly in very hot water, grabbed his cane and left again.

The elevator was empty when he boarded. He leaned into the side grab rail with a grimace and shifted all his weight off the leg. Took a Vicodin and sighed. Reached out the cane and jabbed the button for the ground floor. Inspiration had finally struck.

Gregory House went straight to the clinic's sign-in desk. Did his own signing in at 2:45 p.m. by his watch. If anyone was looking for him, where was the last place on Earth they would consider checking? Yeah! Right! Clinic! He scrawled his name and picked up the nearest clipboard. Brenda, the evil nurse, stared at him suspiciously, but said nothing. There were thirteen names on the list. That number of morons should keep everyone else out of his hair for a couple of hours if he dragged it out. Shouldn't be too hard to do. His leg hurt like hell, even after the Vicodin took the edge off, and he was conscious of feeling very tired. Hide in plain sight. He didn't need his whole brain to deal with these idiots, most of whom wouldn't know a baby aspirin from an M & M.

His first patients were a middle-aged woman and her elderly mother. He sat down on the wheeled stool and turned a deaf ear. They talked, whined, complained about their aches and pains and each other, and House didn't listen. One of them should have to endure the crap he had to put up with every day of his life. They'd have something to bitch about! He ignored them both and wrote out a prescription for the least invasive pain medication for which a prescription was necessary. In the meantime he thought about James and his little brother and the beautiful bronze kid who would probably end up breaking their hearts. And his. Mama and daughter thanked him profusely and departed. He rose from the stool and hobbled to the door, caneless, and proceeded to look for the next victim on his list.

An hour later, the middle-aged guy from the waiting room was the tenth name on the clipboard's roster. The man hopped up onto the examination gurney and bared his chest while Gregg held a stethoscope over his heart, then took deep breaths while Gregg switched the scope to his back. His pulse, House discovered, was normal. The blood pressure cuff was the largest one in the basket on the automatic machine. Gregg wrapped the cuff and then turned the machine on with a flourish. The thing rumbled and gasped, filled itself up for the first of three five-minute-interval run-throughs. The guy was silent and Gregg was too. He ran the guy's numbers through the computer as the machine did its job. His brain was working in multi-layers, only a small portion of it concentrating on BP guy's presence.

The rest of his thoughts were back again on the second floor, wondering what else James Wilson might have offered to Roger and his friend. Perhaps the keys to his new car? His safety deposit box? The pin numbers to his savings and checking accounts? James Wilson's nature was to trust people. It was built into him as deeply as his soft brown eyes and caretaker's soul. House hesitated to interfere in family matters. He'd known of more than one instance where a well-meaning friend had tried to give another friend a warning about a philandering relative, only to be soundly rebuffed and a longtime friendship ended abruptly. Gregg knew Wilson was not like that, but if his worst suspicions were realized, he would have to find a way. Snark and insults were fairly normal in a close friendship. Stepping over the line and giving Wilson that kind of grief, however, was something else entirely. He couldn't do it.

Gregg poked numbers on BP Guy's medical file and filled in the totals as they came up. His BP was stable now, and no changes in medications were indicated. He wrote up refills for the guy's prescriptions and handed them over. When the machine finally shut off, he unwrapped the cuff and told the guy he was free to go.

Another hour and fifteen minutes and the clinic would close for the day. The snotty noses and the whiners and complainers had proved a very effective distraction for the rest of his mind to wander abroad and contemplate his options. No one had to know that he was in possession of any compassion at all. Not Wilson, not Cuddy, not the kids; no one. And no one had any idea of the garbage that continually churned in his mind. Dammit,

that was the way it should be! He could ride it out for another hour and fifteen minutes. Bring on more of the great unwashed. Push the pills and laugh at the idiots.

Soon he could hitch a ride home with Wilson. Then he would call for some Chinese, sprawl on the couch; savor a Scotch or two. Tend to his fucking, aching leg … alone … and no one hovering over him! Swallow more Vicodin. Get some sleep. He could not believe how tired he was right now … or how scared of the immediate future!

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"House?"

He was back in his own office, in his ergonomic chair. Both feet on the floor, but the achy right leg stretched out, both hands cradling it. "Huh?" He released his grip and straightened quickly.

Wilson stuck his head inside the door, gauging the mood. Lethargic. He stepped inside and walked over to the desk. House did not look up. He looked absolutely spent. "Cuddy told me you were in the clinic all afternoon …" It was not a question, exactly. But it was.

"She saw me? I thought she had meetings all day."

"Yeah … but she seldom walks around with her eyes closed …"

"Har-de-har! Good one, Wilson, but lame. Can you think of a better place I might go if I didn't want people to find me? Except for Hawkeye Cuddy, that is?"

"Well … no … I guess not. You were actually_ hiding_ in the clinic?"

"I thought I just said that!"

"What have you got a bug up your ass about now? I only asked you a simple question."

"Yeah, I know. So ask somebody else. Are you soon ready to take me home? I've had about as much of this place as I can take for one day. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and my leg hurts like hell."

"Yeah, I can tell. You're not sick too, are you?"

"Now why the hell would you ask me that? No I'm not sick. I just need some down time. Alone."

"Your wish is my command. If you're ready, let's go!"

Wilson pulled the Chrysler Pacifica into the underground garage on East Side Drive and stopped a stone's throw from the elevator entrance. One look at his friend, slumped on the seat across from him, told James that to drop him at the front entrance and expect him to get out curbside and hobble up even the two easy steps to his front door, would be cruel and unusual punishment. "Shall I go along up with you?" James asked softly.

House already had his door open. "No. I'm fine."

Wilson nodded and prepared to leave. "All right … see you tomorrow."

House nodded. "Thanks," he said. He'd already turned away.

Wilson watched him go, knowing there was nothing more he could say, but certain his friend was deeply troubled about something he was not ready to talk about. The elevator door closed behind Gregory House as Wilson sat and watched. When it was gone, James put the car in gear and pulled out.

"You're welcome …"

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James Wilson stood in the doorway of the spacious living room and surveyed the space he had previously called his den: manly dark furniture, heavy hunter-green draperies, brown and earth-tone Pergo carpet. It wouldn't take much to turn it into a bedroom for Jules and Roger. It would accommodate the wheelchair very easily, and it was handy to all the downstairs rooms, including the bathroom. A ramp leading from the garage to the kitchen would be easy to reinstall. He'd put one in for Gregg years ago when his friend was still wheelchair-bound right after the infarction. He'd dismantled it when Gregg didn't need it anymore, but he could certainly do it again.

James had at first thought, after Julie left and took all her personal belongings with her, that he would put this house on the market and get rid of it once and for all. He'd owned it for thirteen years, and it had survived three marriages, a sunroom and garage addition, and two ambitious remodeling jobs. It was time to turn it over to a new family, which might have better luck at keeping things together.

But now … now … he was glad he hadn't listed it. Roger needed a permanent place from which to rehabilitate himself and learn to walk again. With a little luck, and after he got to know Jules a little better, he might come to understand the young man's interests, and perhaps find him a job. After the passage of time, Roger might find a means of self support also. He had once been, after all, qualified as a teacher. Funny how long it had been since James had even given that fact a thought! Perhaps he could finally get his certification and actually be a teacher after all these years. If he hadn't forgotten how!

Jules was staying with Roger at the hospital tonight. They couldn't get enough of each other. But tomorrow evening he would invite Jules out here, perhaps coax him into helping move the guest room bed down here and bring the heavy sofa bed into the living room. It would be a simple proposition to make them both at home and at the same time offer them privacy. They would need that. When Roger was finally discharged from PPTH, he would still need to return periodically for physical rehab, and this house was fairly accessible to Princeton; only fourteen miles out. Ridge Road opened directly onto Route 206 South, a straight shot to the hospital.

James did not want to get ahead of himself, and of course he would have to find out from his brother and his brother's lover, if that arrangement was okay with them. He did not intend to force them into anything, but having Roger back in his life again after so long was a possibility that made his heart sing. It would be nice to regain the closeness they had shared as kids. James sighed and turned the lights out in the den. It was late and he was weary. He could use a shower and a good night's sleep.

The enveloping darkness turned his thoughts abruptly back to Gregory House. Abruptly! Like a gunshot exploding suddenly, jarringly, through a quiet night.

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He was not "fine". He could not remember the last time he had been "fine". "Fine" was nothing more than a buzz-word in his vocabulary; calculated as a warning to chase off anyone who might move in too closely, try to treat him like a cripple. It was okay if he called himself that. But that designation by anyone else served only to make him retreat further into his own isolated world. He had told Wilson he was "fine", but Wilson knew he was not, and he knew Wilson knew he was not. Wilson had got the hint though, and so here he was, alone again. He'd ordered Chinese, but it sat on his stomach like a stone. The leftovers were parked on the coffee table in their boxes, stinking up his living room, making him wish Wilson were there to share it. The booze he'd washed it down with only made him belch like a St. Bernard. He finally went back to the bathroom, leaned over the toilet and threw it up into the plumbing. So much for ten bucks!

Tonight was just another in a long progression of barely tolerable nights filled with idiot TV shows, soggy food, too much booze and too much pain. Just one more night that saw him collapsed on the couch with the palm of his hand folded over the restless muscles in his thigh and his face set into a grimace.

Tonight he could think of nothing to help distract him, and he had to go it alone because his fear and pride in refusing to be pitied overpowered even the sting of the pain and the terrible need for someone to just hold him. His need and the ability to voice it were so distant from each other that to try to ask anyone for simple companionship seemed an alien aspect that glued his tongue forever to the roof of his mouth.

Friday nights were black holes in his existence; long dragging hours of nothing. If his leg had been a bit more stable, he might have gone to one of the neighborhood bars just to get out of the house. But tonight, it wasn't worth the hassle. Tonight, if jostled, he would probably go on his ass. He did not need more pain on top of that which he already had. He thought of Wilson, rattling around in the big empty house out on Ridge Road and making plans to convert one of the rooms to accommodate Roger and Jules … probably the den.

Gregg could not help move furniture, but he needed the contact with his friend. And he needed to dispel some of the misgivings he had about Roger and Jules encroaching on James's life. Yeah! Definitely the den! He wished he had not been so abrupt with Wilson earlier, but sometimes what came out of his mouth had nothing whatsoever to do with what was in his heart.

"Fuck!"

He hated feeling needy, but he was needy indeed!

He fished his cell phone and the Vicodin bottle out of his jacket pocket and punched in the familiar number, dry swallowed a pill. Wilson answered on the third ring. "Yeah … Wilson …"

"Hey …"

"Hey! I thought you needed some down time … alone."

"I'm a lying asshole bastard! What are you doing? Measuring the den for the bed from the guest room?"

"How the hell did you know?"

"I'm psychic. Wilson?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I come over?"

"Sure." There was no hesitation, and House's guilty conscience spiked. "How about if I come over and pick you up?"

"I can drive, dammit!" There came the snark again, no matter what he did …

"I know. But it's cold, and your leg is a bitch. Give me half an hour and I'll pick you up out front."

"Okay. I have a six-pak … want me to bring it?"

"Nah, I got beer here."

"See you shortly then."

"Wear your jacket! Like I said, it's cold out!"

"Yes, Mommy."

Wilson was laughing softly when they broke the connection, and it was music to Gregg's ears.

Alone tonight he would not be!

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	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15 "Billy Rides Again"

It was midnight. The hospital was again quiet, locked down and dimmed. Medical personnel moved on silent feet and kept their conversations to a whisper. Regular night checks were also carried on in whispers. Tall shadows moved along the corridor walls like wraiths along a mountainside.

Billy Travis was graceful for a large man. His body swayed when he walked, like a canoe riding the waves along a shoreline. The intermittent click of the wooden beads on his dreadlocks was the only audible sound as he glided through the corridors of the second floor ward area. Normally Billy would be on the third floor, but tonight two of his people were out with some kind of bug that was going around, and he did not want them passing anything to his patients, especially those who were immuno-compromised.

Tonight he worked both floors himself, and thought nothing of it. This place was a sanctuary to Billy. Always had been. He'd come a long way since earning a living as an auto mechanic seventeen years ago when he'd first come to the states from his home in Montego Bay. He'd been twenty-five, fresh off the boat and dumber than a ten-penny nail. He'd landed in Miami with the shirt on his back and the sandals on his feet. Two weeks and 1,092 miles in the baggage car of the Coast Liner put him in New York City, hungry and scared. A quick sneak onto the back of a truck loaded with wood chips and headed for New Jersey brought him to a truck stop on the outskirts of Princeton. He lucked out with a job as a dish washer-busboy at one of the greasy all-nighters. Two weeks later he had $100.00 in the pocket of his new jeans. He left the greasy spoon and walked across the river into town. There was a brand new Chrysler dealership opening up, and a sign in the show-room window said the new owner was looking for mechanics.

If Billy knew anything, it was cars. Back in Jamaica everyone drove clunkers; at least everyone that Billy knew did. Old models of everything made in the US of A seemed to have found their way to his neck of the woods, and they all needed constant maintenance. Billy learned by doing, and by the time he was eighteen years old, he was in constant demand. By the age of twenty-five, he was a master mechanic. Vince Crane thought so too.

His knack for internal combustion engines got him a job as a top mechanic at Vince Crane Chrysler-Dodge-Plymouth. Billy lost all of his soft Jamaican lilt and became thoroughly Americanized. He and Vince became good friends, and in time the short, cigar-puffing red-head introduced him to another good friend who had bought a car from him when his dealership had first opened its doors. Gregg House was a young doctor with high expectations and high ambitions. He liked flashy cars and big engines, and Vince Crane sold exactly what he wanted to buy. Gregg bought himself a 1989 Dodge Viper the moment it rolled off the line and stopped being a concept car. Billy kept it in top running condition and cemented a friendship with the irascible doctor that stood the test of time.

Jimmy Wilson came along a few years later. Jimmy was the polar opposite of noisy, boisterous Gregg House, but something drew them together as friends, confidants and constant smart-ass rivals. Jimmy was a gentle, quiet and intelligent young man who was one of three sons of a prosperous Jewish family in Trenton. He was in his first year of medical school, and planned to specialize in oncology. His serious demeanor always took a downward tack whenever he was in Gregg's company, and to watch the two of them together was like refereeing a battle of wills between two ten-year-olds.

Jimmy was gorgeous, moppy-haired and brown eyed, and had quite a following of pretty young things forever nipping at his heels. Gregg, on the other hand, never took a woman seriously. He often sent them … pissed off or crying or both … on their merry way. He was interested only in medicine, cars, sports and raising hell. And a good piece of ass now and then. But he would not commit to a serious relationship. When Jim Wilson expressed an interest in purchasing his first car, Gregg brought him to Vince Crane's and Billy Travis' doorstep to pick one out. If the kid had a car of his own, he wouldn't bum rides in the Viper all the time.

Wilson's eyes fell on the sleek lines of an old, used, baby blue Chrysler Cordoba two-door hardtop, and no one could talk him out of it in any way, shape or form. The three others decided immediately that Jimmy was indeed a "geek", and Jimmy laid down his money and bought the car in spite of the teasing. Of course, no one said a word when he finally traded it in, still in showroom condition, ten years later.

It was Gregg and Jimmy, of course, who recognized the intelligence and empathic humility within Billy Travis, and took it upon themselves to try to talk him into getting his fingers out of the axle grease and into the world of medicine. It was a hard sell. Billy was not that sure of himself, although their encouragement often made him wonder if such a thing might actually be possible for him if he worked hard and kept up a good GPA. Even Vince Crane, who hated to think of parting with his top mechanic, told him he would support him in whichever decision he made.

Scared to death to take the plunge, but wanting the opportunity that nursing school offered, it took Billy almost a year to finally screw up the courage to make a decision. When he did, the showroom of Crane Chrysler became a ballroom, and the congratulatory celebration lasted into the wee hours.

Billy had been a Registered Nurse for five years when Gregory House became crippled for life. Billy Travis had graduated from PPTH's nursing school at the top of his class. He was gruff but compassionate, strong as an ox, but one of the most gentle of men. And when he was your friend, he was your friend for life. He did not let Gregg's bitter attitude get the better of him, and he ignored the whining and the bitching and the pain and suffering Gregg had to endure, handling him with unending humor and tolerance. James Wilson had taught him those lessons well. He was the only person in the world Gregg would allow to carry him around like a child, and Billy protected his newly disabled friend, people said, with his life. He also watched over Jimmy like a second father, because Jimmy was driving himself crazy picking up the pieces of the train wreck that had become Gregg House's existence. Jimmy took care of Gregg, and Billy took care of Jimmy. Sometimes both of them.

And so it was, there in the middle of the night at the huge hospital in Princeton, New Jersey. Billy left the dayroom area where snack and drink machines lined the walls, carrying a cup of black coffee and a pack of Little Debbies. Munching and sipping, he headed back the hallway toward the men's ward. He knew Jimmy Wilson's brother was here, crippled up with PPS, and having a hard time with weakness and pain. Billy hadn't met Roger yet, but Nancy had told him about the young man, and Billy intended to remedy that situation tonight. Maria Colby had told him also, that Roger's friend Jules was there with him, and that Dr. House had actually sent one of his minions out into the city to track the other man down. Billy had known Gregg must be behind the rescue mission. Gregg would be pissed if he knew Billy had found out about it, but Billy had called Robert Chase aside and Chase had told him the whole story. And he'd heard it said so often that Gregg House just didn't care. Like hell he didn't!

Billy paused in the doorway to Room 220, finishing off the last Little Debbie and the final slug of coffee. It was quiet in there. The lights were turned way down, and all the beds were filled. Maria had told him that Roger Wilson's bed was back against the far wall. The skinny kid wasn't hard to locate. Billy stepped inside the door and tossed his snack debris in the waste can there.

Dark eyes glittered at him from the last bed. There was fear in Roger's face, and Billy took it calmly. It was a fact of life. It was not unusual for a small white man to be a little afraid of a big dark-skinned black man like himself, and he was used to it. Change came slowly, and for some, the Civil War still raged. He held his index and middle fingers to his lips and approached the bed slowly. Roger looked up at him, and Billy smiled in the dim light, exposing white teeth that stood out in the gloom like a string of pearls. Another white men's cliché!

"I'm Bill Travis," he whispered. "Third shift charge nurse. You're Jimmy's brother, aren't you? He's a good friend of mine, and I wanted to meet you. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"

Roger smiled in return and relaxed visibly. "I heard about you," he said. He held out a thin hand. Billy took it and they shook hands. "I'm a little achy and having some trouble sleeping, but it's nothing I can't handle. I always have trouble sleeping. I guess I'm going to go live with my brother in a few days. He says it's no trouble to run me back and forth for my therapy sessions. They'll be on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays."

"Yep, that's what Maria says. She tells me she and Mark Fetterolf are taking care of all your therapy and meds. Dr. Fetterolf says you're doing pretty well. He's doing his best to fatten you up, you know."

"Mark? Yeah, he's a nice guy. Doesn't like Greg much though. I don't know why. I like him a lot. He understands how bad this damn leg stuff hurts."

Billy smiled. "You got to meet Gregg House, huh? He and your brother are two of the best friends I ever had."

"Did you know Greg before he got hurt?"

"Yeah."

"I feel so sorry for him …"

"Don't ever let him hear you say that!"

"Why? I already did."

"Oh ho! The only reason you've gotten away with it is because you're Jimmy's brother. Right now you got a free pass … but if I were you, I'd cut it out. He's in pain … but he handles it. Do him the favor of not patronizing him. He hates it!"

Roger looked at Billy skeptically, but nodded. "Okay." The young man's eyes lifted over Billy's shoulder, and a smile spread on his face.

Billy turned just in time to see a young, thin black man walk up slowly behind them. "You must be Jules," Billy said.

"Yeah, mon. You're Billy. I still hear the song of the sea in your voice, mon, but most is gone. Yeah?"

Billy grinned. "You got a good ear. I haven't been back there in more than twenty-five years."

"Montego Bay? Like I said … the sea."

"Yeah, real close. You?'

"Kingston."

"Beautiful old town. I remember it before the resorts moved in. Are you and Roger … a couple?"

Jules smiled. His green eyes sparkled in the dim lighting and Billy realized how beautiful the young man was. "Yeah, mon. You okay with that?"

"Completely. I know others."

"I see." Jules raised his eyebrows appraisingly, but said nothing further.

Billy helped Roger lie back against his pillows, touched his cheeks and temples with the backs of his hands. Did he detect a slight temp? He removed the thermometer case from his belt, inserted a fresh sleeve and indicated to Roger to open his mouth. 99.8 Up a tad from normal. He lowered the blankets to Roger's ankles, gently touched his thin legs and the slight swelling that still distended his knee joints. His body seemed to be inclining to the right. Scoliosis! This young man needed to get up on his feet soon, before he was unable to walk at all. Billy needed to stop by the nurse's station and fill out a report for Dr. Fetterolf.

"I'm going to bring you some pain meds and something to help you sleep. It was nice meeting you, Roger. You too, Jules. Dr. Fetterolf will be by to see you in the morning." Billy stood up and turned toward the door. "I'll be right back with those meds." He left quickly before they saw the anguish in his eyes."

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135


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16 "Looking Out for the Cripple"

The Pacifica pulled up in front of House's condo forty five minutes after he'd made the call to Wilson. Gregg was waiting out front, the collar of his heavy jacket turned up and tucked in at his throat. He was hunched over his cane and obviously shivering his ass off. Wilson didn't know whether to sympathize or laugh. Ultimately, he decided on laughter. House had it coming!

"Thought you said a half hour," House bitched as he folded himself into the heated passenger seat.

Wilson waited, watching as his friend hauled his uncooperative leg inside and shut the door. "Yeah … well … I had to make a stop downtown first. The stores are crowded."

"Must've been pretty damned important," the other man groused.

"It was."

Wilson had the car stereo tuned to an NPR station which, at the moment, was playing easy listening music with a mellow sound. "Moonlight in Vermont". House made a face, but slouched down in the seat to take full advantage of the heat. "Next thing you know they'll be playing 'Moon Over Miami'," he muttered. Wilson looked over at him but said nothing, just kept driving. When the orchestra segued into "Mood Indigo", House groaned. "What's next, 'The Happy Organ'?"

Wilson grinned. "You should be so lucky!" he grunted. "Is your organ happy? Or doesn't it still work?"

House snorted. "Har de har har! Thought that went right over my head, didn't you?"

"It occurred to me … but I know you're a dirty old man …"

House changed the subject. "You got beer, right?"

"Uh huh. And I made some chilidogs in the crock pot, if you want one."

"Already ate."

"Like what?"

"General Tso's chicken … egg roll … shrimp in lobster sauce over rice … all that nutritious stuff. You know …"

"Sounds wonderful!" The sarcasm showed through.

"Yeah … I threw half of it out … and the rest of it _up!_"

"Doesn't surprise me."

"Sorry I chewed your head off awhile back."

"Forget it. I'm used to your irresistible charm. Feel better?"

"Some."

"That's all that's necessary …"

They settled down to "Easy Listening" the rest of the way to Ridge Road. "Moon Over Miami" never came up.

Wilson thought he might have to help Gregg out of the car, but he sat and waited after pulling into the garage, and gradually, House opened the passenger door and maneuvered himself out. He came around the front of the car, right hand on the cane, left one levering himself on the hood. James pretended not to notice. Instead, he opened the driver's door and got out, flipped open the rear door and retrieved a rectangular box in a plastic shopping bag. House watched him, smoky eyes shifting between the package and Wilson's face, more than a little suspicious. "Got yourself a year's supply of condoms?" He asked in an offhand manner.

Wilson knew Gregg was angling to know what was in the bag, but did not rise to the bait. "Something like that," he said. He shut the car door and stepped up the two steps to the kitchen, unlocking the back door as he did so. House followed, lurching up the two steps with difficulty and trying to mask exactly how much of an effort it was. Wilson held the door wide to allow his friend entrance into the kitchen, pungent with smells of fragrant crock-pot cookery. He made no comment about the strain he could plainly see in House's face. "Actually, it's for you." He walked across the kitchen and placed the bag on the table.

"Oh yeah?" House eyed the bag and the box inside with disdain. "I have a feeling it's not really something I'd ask Santa Claus for …"

"Can't always get what you want …" Wilson muttered. "But sometimes you get what you need."

House frowned. "Ahh … the Philosopher Jagger …"

Wilson pulled the box out of the bag and opened the lid. Something fuzzy and yellow peeked over the top of the box. "Yeah … wise old Brit, that Jagger."

House wrinkled his nose and squinted. "What the hell is that?"

"You're a doctor and you don't know?" Wilson was unrolling the fuzzy yellow material across the table. It slightly resembled a baby blanket with an electrical cord at one end.

House continued to watch and squint. The thing unrolled to about forty-eight inches in length. It was soft vinyl plastic and the cord was attached to one end, which was slightly wider than the other. The yellow material seemed to be the cover. Another piece of material was made of something that looked and felt like thick terrycloth. "What the hell?"

Wilson sighed. "It's a moist-heat pad. Don't try to tell me you never saw one before!"

House groaned. "Oh … aren't I lucky? Now I see what you're up to … and no thanks! I just never saw one before that looked like a dead five-pound canary. You're not gonna use that damn thing on me!"

Wilson shrugged nonchalantly. "Couldn't hurt you, dumb-ass! Besides … if you're as sore right now as I'm thinking you are, then something drastic needs to be done about it. This can help … and probably let you settle down and get some sleep tonight."

"Oh yeah, I understand, Wilson. And you think I'm going to let you mess with my leg? Well, guess what! No way Jose! My leg is fine, and you're not going to screw around and get it all stirred up. Aint gonna happen, Buckaroo!"

"House! Shut! Up!" Wilson rounded on him with both hands on his hips. "Take off your coat and jacket! Go in the bathroom and get out of your shoes and jeans. I'm going to get this plugged in and ready, and dampen the pad. I want you in the den on the couch in five minutes! And I don't want to hear any more crap. Understand?"

House frowned. It was seldom that Wilson came down on him like thunder and lightning, and for a moment it stopped him in his tracks. "Who died and left you boss?"

Wilson raised both eyebrows, but stood his ground. "Nobody yet, smartass, but you're liable to find out in a hurry if you don't do as I say!"

House backed off. His eyes grew wide, and Wilson thought he gave in a little too easily. "Oooh … honey … I love it when you talk dirty to me!"

"Shut up! Go!"

House went.

There was a blanket spread out on the couch, and two pillows stacked at one end. Another pillow sat on the top of the backrest … waiting. When Gregg limped into the den, sans pants and shoes and coat, Wilson was waiting for him with the fuzzy moist heat pad, complete with not-quite-soggy wet insert. "Sit! Lean back! Bend your knee a little so I can get this under it! I see it's a little swollen. Yeah … like that. You look like a whipped puppy, House. I'm not going to hurt you! Here … take the pad and place it over your scar. I'll fold the wrap around it. Sit still! Okay … now lift up a little so I can get the pillow under your knee. There. Now pull the blanket up to your waist. Give it a little time to warm up. Let me know how it feels." Wilson sat back, looking at once a little concerned, a little nervous.

At first there was no reaction. House's face was unreadable. He sat with head bent toward his chest, eyes closed, both fists curled in his lap. But he was leaning into the pillows propped against the arm of the sofa, and the bulk of the other pillow and the lump of the moist heat pad formed a sizable mound around his bad leg.

Finally the clenched fists began to loosen. House's head lolled to one side and an exhausted moan escaped his lips in a long, drawn-out expulsion of breath. "Ahhhh … oh … my … God!" His eyes opened to find Wilson on his knees on the floor beside him. He offered a brief smile and shook his head fractionally.

"How is it?" Wilson asked. His hands were on the heat-pad controls, turning the heating element down to its lowest setting; just enough to maintain maximum comfort with the minimum of heat.

"Holy shit! Wonderful!"

"I thought it might work for you. Moist heat relaxes your muscles and helps keep them from cramping … even yours, you stubborn jackass! After the last couple of days, you need it. So how about a chilidog and a beer?" Wilson switched the subject without missing a beat.

House grinned. The strained look had gone out of his face and it made him appear years younger. "Thought you'd never ask. I smelled 'em the second I came in the back door. But if I'm sound asleep when you get back, don't wake me … just eat it yourself." A hand reached out and touched Wilson's wrist. "Thanks. Sorry for being such an ass."

"Oh, for crying out loud! If you don't shut up soon, I'm going to start thinking you're developing a conscience!" Wilson grinned and rose to his feet.

On his way into the kitchen, he could hear the distinct grumble of his friend's snarky reply. "Fuck off, Jimmy!"

"That's the House we all know and love so much!" he whispered to himself with a smile.

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House was mellow for the rest of the evening. They stayed up late; talking, stuffing themselves with Wilson's excellent chilidogs and finishing off a six-pack of Coors Light. They sat with a lined legal pad and marked off the dimensions of the den, figuring out the best arrangement for the guest-room bed, and how to rearrange the desk, the computer center, the bookcase and the stereo system. If the big sofa bed where House now rested, were to be moved into the living room, replacing the furniture Julie and taken with her, enough space could be freed up by shifting Wilson's big leather recliner to a corner, or moving it out to the living room along with the sofa bed. Eventually they decided on the second option, since the television was out there, and it would offer plenty of room for Roger to maneuver his wheelchair, and eventually crutches as his rehabilitation progressed.

Wilson told House of his plans to bring Jules out here to help move the furniture, and House told him he'd better bring someone better suited for heavy hauling than that skinny geek. The two of them would both have hernias before the lugging was even begun. Wilson asked, in a huff, just who House had in mind. House began counting off big guys on the fingers of one hand: Billy Travis, Mark Fetterolf, Stan Ralls, Vince Crane, Norm Lyons …

"Kind of short notice, don't you think?" Wilson asked.

House shrugged. "None of them work weekends. It'll take a half hour at the most. Hell, Billy could do it himself in a heartbeat … and you know he would. Billy would move mountains for you and me …"

"Yeah," Wilson agreed. "He would. Okay, I'll ask him. And Vince … it'll be like old times."

"Don't forget Vince is a little goofy around me. He'll get all mushy and uncomfortable, and I don't want that to happen."

"He can handle it," Wilson said sternly. "He'll handle it or I'll throttle him, damn it."

They knocked off around 11:00 p.m., both of them bone weary and ready for sleep. Wilson reached across to lay his hand on the blanket that covered his friend to the waist.

"How about if you shift over so I can re-wet the moist pad for you? Dry heat might stiffen you up, but another dousing should get you through the night … see how it feels in the morning."

Gregg moved the blanket down and bent his knee slightly.

"Hurt?"

"No, it's fine."

"That's not a statement from you that I trust much …"

"Really. It's okay."

"Good." Wilson pulled the pad away from the lining and stood up with it. "Where are your coat and jacket and pants?"

"Hanging on the back of the bathroom door, why?"

"Need your meds?"

"Unhh …Yeah."

"That's what I thought. I'll bring them. Be right back."

"'Kay."

House shook his head in wonder as the other man walked away. Couldn't get away with anything with Wilson anymore! His leg ached as usual, but it was not the overpowering "engine knock" that had nagged him a few hours before. He had to admit, this moist-heat idea of Wilson's seemed to be working. With a Vicodin or two, he should be able to get a decent night's sleep. He wondered where Wilson was going to sleep. He didn't relish the idea of languishing alone in Wilson's den. If he had to get up during the night to go to the bathroom, it could be a disaster. He also wished he'd not chickened out about expressing some of his vague doubts about Jules and Roger coming out here to begin what would probably be a lengthy stay in Wilson's home.

Wilson returned momentarily. "Here … shift!" He handed over the Vicodin bottle and a small glass of water, and then adjusted the heat wrap to replace the moist pad between the soft layers. Gregg marveled at the gentle motions of Wilson's warm hands, watching with interest and complete trust as he downed two pills and swallowed the water. Wilson fluffed the pillow beneath House's leg and replaced it carefully, reached downward and touched his bare knee, meeting House's gaze in question.

"I'm fine!" Gregg told his friend, and the quiet assurance in his voice gave Wilson what he most wanted to hear: the truth. House was not cussing, bitching or lying, and the depths of the blue eyes as they penetrated his own made Wilson's stomach wrench and his breath hitch with emotion. Quickly, he lowered his gaze before House saw the sudden moisture and accused him once again of "taking care of the cripple." He removed the pill bottle and the glass from Gregg's hands and moved them over to the desk. He hauled the big leather recliner closer to the couch and, before he fell into it, dimmed the lights to a hazy, indistinct glow.

House followed his movements silently, but looked across in question as Wilson sighed heavily when he pulled the chair's lever and pushed the mechanism backward.

"What?" Wilson asked softly as he felt the other's scrutiny sweep across his face. He smiled a little. "You didn't think I would actually go upstairs to bed and leave you alone down here, did you? Jerk?"

The deep rumble of laughter was answer enough.

The night was quiet. The neighborhood was quiet, the house was quiet, and the room was quiet, except for their even breathing.

And they slept, facing each other, as friends sometimes do …

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141


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17 "The Cripple Gets Even"

Wilson was up and moving by 6:00 a.m. Daylight was just beginning to quicken to the east, and the shadows of night were lifting around the edges of the den where Gregory House still slept. Wilson tiptoed to the bathroom for a shower, knowing Gregg was a light sleeper, and doing his best not to wake him. He'd glanced over at his friend a few minutes before when his inner clock forced his eyes open. House looked as though he hadn't moved all night, and that could only be good news. Wilson had always known, from the nights he'd spent on Gregg's couch, and that one night with him in his bed, House's leg almost always had him awake long before this. Wilson pursed his lips, gratified. The moist heat must have helped to the point of staving off the pain, at least for awhile, allowing House to get some extra much-needed rest.

He let the water run long and hot, rinsing his body in relaxing comfort, loosening muscles that had been cramped with tension. He raised his face to the hot stream and let the water cascade down across his eyes, nose, mouth and chin; on down across his chest, belly and legs. He could feel the final vestiges of his bout with the urinary infection finally melting away with the cascade of the water, and he felt cleansed of it at last. Wilson took a deep breath and held it for a moment, arching his back and working his head back and forth on his neck, feeling the nerves along his spinal column working free also. _God! _ He thought, _you don't appreciate good health until you don't have it for awhile!_

And that quickly, his consciousness snapped back to Gregg House.

_Damn!_

Wilson shut down the water and grabbed a towel from the towel bar right outside the shower stall. He ran the thick terrycloth through his heavy mop of auburn hair, toweled off his shoulders, then anchored the ends around his waist and stepped out onto the bathmat. Even when Gregg was far away from his thoughts, he _wasn't!_ James wiped a circle of condensation off the lav mirror with the palm of his hand and peered at his face in the small oval which appeared there. He was scruffy. "House-like". Wow!

He thought briefly about letting his beard grow for the weekend, but the silly thought only brought visions of "Olsen Twins" back to his consciousness, and he figured he'd had enough of that this week. He didn't flip open the case of his Norelco because its buzz would probably wake Gregg. Instead, he took out a can of Barbasol and a toss-away razor. He lathered his face and shaved quickly, rinsing the sink when he'd finished. He turned from his ablutions, hung up the bathmat and opened the bathroom door quietly. Gregg's jeans and coat and jacket, hanging from the hook, brushed the side of his face at the movement.

_Coffee?_

As soon as the door opened, the heavenly aroma reached his nostrils and submerged all of his senses in fantasies of domestic bliss. He shook his head, smiling. Some things never changed.

_Sneaky bastard! _

Wilson hurried to the kitchen in his white towel, where House, still in sock feet, tee shirt and boxer briefs, sat perched on one of the kitchen stools watching the drip coffee maker do its little gurgling act. His cane hung from the edge of the counter, not far from his right hand. "Morning!" he said in the kind of grumpy-scratchy falsetto he often used when torturing the ducklings. "Don't you look lovely! You remind me of Baby New Year!"

"Morning, smartass!" Wilson replied cautiously. "I tried not to wake you…"

"I know," House said smugly. "And you made twice as much racket being quiet. It sounded like a herd of elephants. Would have been easier to sleep through somebody whacking at a hallow tree trunk with a chainsaw!"

"Well thank you very much. Remind me next time to put 'Wipeout' on the stereo for you!"

"Good idea. Maybe 'Woolly Bully!'…"

"Well, now that you've taken your first potshot at me for the day … to what do I owe the honor of coffee brewing?"

"Well," House replied, "since it was too damn noisy to sleep anyhow, and since I couldn't get into the bathroom to pee or anything, and since trying to climb your steps to the second floor crapper would be like trying to climb Mt. Everest in a blizzard, I thought I'd make you some coffee. Keep you occupied when it was my turn to go in there and leak the lizard … choke the chicken … squeeze the snake … pump up the pipeline … whatever … You don't mind, do you?"

Wilson frowned; rolled his eyes. Where the hell did he come _up_ with this stuff? "Don't let _me_ hold you up!"

House slid off the stool and grabbed his cane. He moved out of the kitchen in the direction of the bathroom, doing his best to minimize the limp, but Wilson could tell his leg hurt him. And the knee was still swollen. He sighed. The moist heat had gotten Gregg through the night, but as a solution beyond that one small respite, it had failed miserably.

When the coffee maker stopped perking and Wilson crossed to it to remove the grounds, he saw something on the counter he hadn't noticed before. The bottle of Vicodin stood there where House had left it. Wilson took a closer look. The prescription refill was down by almost half, and he knew for a fact that House had just had the bottle topped off!

_Ahh … damn!_

Wilson picked up the Vicodin bottle and cradled it in his palm. Staring at it sadly, he turned it end-over-end between his fingers and then set it back on the counter where he'd found it. House would come for it when he left the bathroom and returned to the kitchen for his coffee.

Wilson had been intending to pour himself a steaming cup and then take a few minutes to dash upstairs to change into old clothes while it cooled. He'd been going to call Billy and Vince and ask to borrow their muscle power for a couple of hours; get the den ready for Jules and Roger. Now, all contemplation of that had fled. House was back in his thoughts again, scattering his senses and messing with his guilty Jewish heart.

House and his pain: House and his Vicodin. Thoughts like these had crowded all others away so many times recently that Wilson could not concentrate on anything but his friend and the painful, nagging disability. He remembered House telling him one time that the Vicodin didn't make him high; didn't make him stoned. It made him neutral.

"_It lets me do my job. And it takes away my pain!"_

Wilson remembered the bet, and the week of detox, which now seemed so long ago. He would _never _do anything like that to Gregg again! His friend's desperation had driven him to divert his agony by smashing his fingers with a heavy wrought iron pestle: his physician's fingers … the fingers of a concert pianist … and being grateful for the broken bones which had been the result. It was frightening then, and now it all came rushing back. House was probably overmedicating again, and sooner or later the damn stuff would wreck his kidneys, and maybe his life.

Wilson took a deep breath, leaned back on his stool and stared toward the bathroom door. The water was running. Gregg was in the shower. Wilson blinked. The shower floor was smooth, and when splashed with soap, became slippery. If House fell in there, he could whack the leg, or his head, and hurt himself badly. James got up and left the coffee maker, the Vicodin bottle and the kitchen, and padded to the bathroom door, listening to the sounds of running water. "House? You okay in there? That shower gets pretty slippery when it's soapy …"

There was a pause, then the hollow sound of House's voice from within. Exasperation personified. "I know, Mommy. I've showered at your house before. If you want to be useful, go upstairs and fish around in the bottom drawer of your dresser. Grab the socks, shorts and tee-shirt I left here a couple months ago."

Wilson frowned. "What?"

"The clothes I left here the last time we went to a Penn State game … last October. You do remember the Penn State game, don't you?"

"Unhh … yeah …"

"So get my stuff out of your bottom dresser drawer, willya? Never mind jeans. The ones on the back of the door are clean enough." The water shut off abruptly and Wilson heard the shower curtain snick back. "Your damn stair steps don't agree with me much …"

"I'm going!"

Wilson thundered up the steps and rummaged in the bottom drawer of his dresser. It was all there, just as House had said it was.

_How the hell … ?_

Julie must have told House that his stuff was there. _He_ certainly hadn't. He hadn't even known about it. Sometimes his friend's powers of recollection made Wilson feel like a dunce in comparison. He grabbed the clean socks, briefs and tee shirt and hurried back downstairs with them. Knocked on the bathroom door and then handed them over into a moist, long-fingered hand that reached through for them. "Give me a second and I'll go get your shoes …"

"Yeah … well hurry up! You gonna call Vince and Billy?"

"Unhh … yeah … how'd you know?"

"You told me last night. So move it! It's getting late. And while you're sitting around doing nothing, pour me a cup of coffee, will ya, Mom?"

Wilson felt himself bristling. "I haven't had a chance to get dressed myself yet, dammit! Get your ass in gear and go pour your own coffee! You crippled or something? "

"Oh wow! Mommy is about to get pissed! Good one, Mommy! Later …"

The bathroom door went closed again and the muffled cackle that escaped from behind it reminded Wilson of his father's teasing taps on the back of his head for not paying attention when he was a kid. He could feel himself doing a slow burn, but knew it wouldn't do him any good. He turned away from the bathroom door and went to the den for House's shoes; parked them outside the bathroom door and ran back upstairs a second time for those old clothes he'd promised himself a half hour ago.

When Wilson returned to the kitchen in raggedy tee shirt, old jeans and a pair of moccasins with no socks, House was dressed in the clean clothing. On the counter in front of them, two cups of coffee were waiting and a dish filled with chocolate chip cookies were placed between. House looked at him with a grin on his face, giddy with juvenile one-upmanship, and ready for any kind of silly argument Wilson might condescend to. House was digging in the pockets of his jeans, scattering a pile of small miscellaneous items on the counter in front of him.

"Coffee's ready, Mommy … aren't I thoughtful?" he said sweetly, and at that moment Wilson could have throttled him.

"Where'd you find the cookies?" James asked conversationally, watching the smallish pile of junk accumulating on the counter.

"Pantry. Where do you think? I remember where Julie used to keep all the goodies." Meanwhile, the little pile was spreading. Wilson saw a half-dozen salted peanuts, some pocket change sticky with salt, a few brightly colored M&Ms, also salt-covered, two tiny screws, a crumpled dollar bill, two AAA batteries … and a small handful of Vicodin. Salty Vicodin!

"Are those your meds?" Wilson asked incredulously. As he watched, a few more peanuts, a few more M&Ms and another Vicodin joined the pile. Wilson felt thoroughly chastised for his suspicions earlier.

"Yeah. Sometimes I dump some in my pocket in the morning when I get dressed. Saves time, especially if we have a nasty case going. Your point is?" House looked up, frowning. He picked up his coffee cup and took a sip.

Wilson swallowed hard. "In case you walk off without the bottle? I didn't think you ever forgot anything. I never knew you carried pills around in your pocket like that. Is that why?"

"Yeah. Sometimes I leave in a hurry without my jacket … and the bottle. Didn't you hear what I said? If I do that, it usually leads to pain. I learned the hard way not to take liberties with the pain. Okay?" He took another sip of coffee; bit into a cookie. Dunked what was left, downed it all.

"Oh." Wilson counted in his head the ratio of pills still in the bottle against the ones on the kitchen counter, and swallowed again, convulsively. He had thought …

House was looking at him skeptically, smirking. He had probably left the bottle on the counter on purpose; knew what his friend might assume. Testing; always testing! "You still don't really trust me much with those, do you, Jimmy?" Wilson could hear the trace of hurt in his friend's voice.

_This is not a test! _ But today it was.

"No," he answered honestly. "You scare me. I know you need to manage your pain, but those are some serious meds, House …they're dangerous. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"It means everything to me, Jimmy. But I'm a big boy. I might not act like a big boy sometimes, but I am. There are some things you can't help me with. This is one of them. Sometimes 'looking out for the cripple' is a waste of your time. And mine."

House's eyes dropped to the little pile of white caplets in front of him. He started to stuff everything, except for the peanuts and M & Ms, back into his jeans pocket. "Drink your coffee, Wilson. Have a cookie. Then go call Vince and Billy! I can feel myself getting older by the minute, just sitting here!"

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Vince Crane and Billy Travis arrived together in Billy's worn-out Ford Taurus. The car had been new the same year of Gregg's infarction, and Vince had been on Billy and on him about trading the thing in before it left his ass sit somewhere. Billy admitted he'd been thinking about it for awhile, but still he hedged. He was one of those people to whom a car had a distinct personality, had its own pet name, and was part of the family. You didn't just trade in a family member, and "Nellybelle" still ran great, thank you.

The two men came in through the garage lugging a case of _Miller Light_, a bag of questionable "man-groceries", a magnum of _Captain Morgan_ and a case of Pepsi. It was going to be an interesting day after all the lugging was done. They dumped everything in the kitchen and joined Wilson and House in the den.

Vince was still uncomfortable around Gregg, and still sick with sorrow about the damage to their friend's leg, to which he'd never become completely reconciled. House always handled Crane's hang-up with grace and an unusual amount of humility (for him), knowing it made Vince almost weepy. Therefore, he did a minimum of walking around, and kept the cane mostly out of sight. Out of sight, out of mind, he figured.

The furniture rearrangement took three of them an hour. They left the double bed in pieces in the den, at the same spot where the old sofa bed had been, with the mattress and box springs leaning against the wall. They had first lugged the ponderously heavy old sofa bed out the door sideways, twisting and turning to force it to go through. Gregg House sat across the room at the desk with his legs propped up on its surface, running off at the mouth and in general, holding court and criticizing every move they made. No one paid him the least amount of attention. When they took the big leather recliner and inched it past the doorway into the living room, he followed them out and stood against the wall with his arms crossed, cane hanging off a forearm, bad leg crossed gingerly over the sound one.

With everything settled into a workable arrangement, Vince Crane appeared at the top of the stairs with his arms loaded with sheets, pillows and blankets. "Here's all the stuff that came off the bed, Jimmy. You gonna make it up now, or do we get to stop for a beer first?"

From the doorway, Wilson and Travis paused and stared up at him. House squinted across the room with a look of concentration as though Wilson's next words held the fate of the world in his hands. "Well, the worst of it's done. All that's left is putting the bed back together, arranging the furniture, and doing the cleanup. I think a beer right about now is an excellent idea."

House nodded. "Yeah," he said solemnly. "Sounds good. That was hard work. I'm tired. Get us all a beer, willya, Jimmy?"

Wilson pursed his lips and sighed, along with a demonstration of his patented eye roll. "Yeah, House … like you really put the muscle to it this time!"

House pouted. "Yah. All that manly grunting and power surging really did a number on my leg. I'm exhausted!"

Upstairs, Vince Crane winced visibly. "Damn it, Gregg … could you please … _not_ …"

"Sorry …"

They gathered in the kitchen for the next hour; laughing, catching up with each other's lives, and reaffirming their long friendship. Wilson filled Vince and Billy in on his plans to put up his brother and friend until the two of them were able to get back on their feet, so to speak, and give them what support he could until they could get their lives back together.

"Do your folks know about Roger yet?" Vince asked.

Wilson shook his head. "No. I haven't called them. I know I should, but I'm still a little overwhelmed myself, and I really don't want to traumatize any of them until Roger looks a little less emaciated, and has a chance to be discharged, move out here and begin to be a little more … normal.

"They also need some time to digest the fact of Jules. It's not that they were completely in the dark about Rodge's sexual orientation, but I don't want to hit them over the head with it either. Tom would probably be fine with it … but Mom and Dad … I'm not sure. It won't be long before I tell them, because if I don't soon, I'll be in all kinds of trouble … but not just yet."

When Travis, Crane and Wilson got up to return to the front of the house to finish with the furniture placement and cleanup, House begged off and sat at the kitchen table by himself. Wilson looked back at him questioningly from the doorway to the dining room, but House gestured him on with an impatient waggle of his fingers. Wilson shrugged, turned, and followed Travis and Crane.

When they were gone, House went to the refrigerator for another beer. He leaned down and rummaged among the contents, found hamburger, onions, greens for a salad, and a multitude of condiments. He piled all of this on the cutting board, pushed the empty coffee maker out of the way, and proceeded to start lunch.

He parked his cane on the edge of the counter and pulled across the same stool he'd perched on that morning to use again. He found the hamburger, some stale bread, a few eggs, a couple of bowls, a spoon, a fork and a sharp knife. He diced the onion finely and put part of it aside for the salad. Shredded the bread and dumped it into the bowl, followed by three eggs cracked one-handed. Very carefully, he prepared the hamburger mixture in one of the bowls, mashing it meticulously with both hands and then forming a frying pan full of fat, fragrant burgers.

Wilson wasn't the only good cook in this outfit, dammit! He knew he was laying himself wide open for all kinds of teasing later, but he proceeded anyway, knowing he could handle their barbs with verbal cannonballs of his own. No problemo!

It was the aroma that drew them back.

When the three friends descended once again upon the fragrant-with-cooking-smells kitchen, Gregg House was lifting the lid of the frying pan on a whole crowd of succulent, slow-cooked cheeseburgers, sniffing their pungent aroma and holding up thumb and forefinger in an "OK" sign before lowering the lid again and turning down the burner to a slow simmer. A covered pot of doctored canned baked beans morphed slowly on the back burner. The salad was in the bowl on the counter, buns were in the warmer, plates and silverware on the side, and salad dressings and condiments spread within easy reach.

"Holy jumpin' buckets of catfish!" Vince Crane exclaimed happily, and his sentiments were echoed twice more from the friends behind him.

Gregory House was nothing if not smug, but he was venerated and welcome to it when all four of them dug in and made short work of his culinary efforts.

Not one disparaging remark followed that Saturday lunch.

Vince, Billy and Jimmy even did the dishes, while Gregg sat at the table with his legs propped on the edge of it and drank a beer with a satisfied smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

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151


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18 "Wilson's Boys"

On his way home from taking House back to his own place, Wilson stopped by the hospital to see Roger and Jules.

He had not lingered at East Side Drive because he could feel the need in Gregg to be alone once more. Sometimes his friend's body seemed to radiate the need for isolation, and Wilson could read it on his face like a blinking neon sign. House had assured him that he was indeed all right. He just wanted and needed solitude; time to stretch out mind and body in his own personal space and relax to the best of his ability, and vegetate by himself.

Wilson had no qualms about leaving his friend alone this time. Gregg House was a complex man, not normally a social animal. When society closed in around him and forced him to accommodate his friends, such as had happened today with Vince Crane's mental hang-ups about his physical condition, then Gregg needed to retreat deep inside himself and lick the wounds that Vince had inflicted years before without even being aware of it. Wilson knew what was happening today, even _as_ it was happening, and knew what the end result would be. Vince was doing his best to stop his guts from churning when he was around Gregg, and Gregg did his best not to come down on Vince for being a coward when he saw Gregg's lameness, or heard him make jokes about being a cripple. Wilson did not know if the impasse would ever be resolved between them, but at least they were facing the problem instead of running from it. But now Gregg needed to unwind, and Wilson was willing to allow him the down-time to do it.

When House struggled out of the Pacifica in the underground garage of his condo, Wilson reached across the seat and touched his friend's hand briefly. "Call me if anything changes," he said.

House nodded, then pulled away and walked with effort toward the elevator. "Yeah. Thanks."

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Wilson pulled his car into an outside parking space on the PPTH lot and shut off the engine. At 6:15 p.m., it was nearly dark. Two more weeks until Daylight Savings Time. The weather should be warmer, and daylight would stick around a little longer. He got out of the car and beeped it into standby mode, slipped his keys into the ratty pocket of his old green GAP jacket and walked up the front sidewalk to the main entrance.

All the administrative offices were shut down for the weekend, and the corridors were already dimming into evening calm. James quickened his pace to the elevator bank where he and Gregg were headed when they'd both been waylaid by the double whammy that made a shambles of their entire week.

Wilson was tired. Stiff and sore. He'd engaged muscles today that he didn't normally use for strenuous activity anymore, and most of them were beginning to pull painfully. He clasped a hand to the back of his neck, massaging roughly, groaning at the resistance he felt there. Was he getting old already? Guess so!

He stepped out on the second floor not far from the nurse's station. There were two women working the desk; both RNs, charting and counting meds. Neither saw him walk past. His moccasins made no noise on the polished floor.

Wilson continued down the corridor toward the second floor ward. There were no stragglers wandering around in the halls tonight. Everyone must be full of supper and in a mellow mood. Was there a NASCAR Busch night race on somewhere tonight? Or might there be a WWF marathon? A dose of March Madness, maybe? Wilson wasn't sure, but it was very quiet at the moment, and he continued on his way to Room 220 and peered in the door. Roger's bed was empty and his wheelchair was gone. The bed being used by Jules was empty also. Two men in the remaining beds looked up at his entrance, not recognizing him in his old clothes. Both nodded a greeting, both pairs of hard eyes set into hard faces looked at him in question.

"Anyone happen to know where Mr. Wilson and Mr. LeBeque are?" He asked.

"They might be over in the dayroom," one of them replied. "Those cutsie boys don't spend too much time in here when we're here!"

"What do you mean by that?" Wilson growled.

"Means just what it sounds like, buddy. _'Mister'_ Wilson and _'Mister'_ LeBeque are a little light in the loafers, man. A blind man could see it with a cane!" He guffawed at his own joke and was joined by the man in the next bed. "Who the hell are you, anyhow?"

"I'm Dr. James Wilson, and Roger Wilson is my brother. Perhaps you gentlemen might want to rethink your positions where he and Mr. LeBeque are concerned."

Their expressions changed quickly. Both pairs of eyes darted away. "We didn't mean nothin', Dr. Wilson … but … Jesus!"

Wilson planted his feet and slammed both hands into his jacket pockets. "And the fact that their lifestyle differs from yours concerns you boys … how? Have they stolen your food? Poisoned your water buckets? Threatened to attack you in your beds?"

"Well … no …"

"Then I would suggest you tend to your own affairs and allow them to do the same. They won't be around to bother you that much longer. Is that understood?"

"Yeah … Jeez, man …"

Wilson pivoted on his heel and strode out of the room, turning in the direction of the dayroom. That had been a very short, sweet, instructive conversation, and everyone had learned a lot from it. He was angry. It was time to get Roger and Jules the hell out of here! Monday at the latest.

They were across in the furthest boundary of the dayroom, near a small alcove where the draperies came together at the corner window. Roger was in his wheelchair wearing a heavy sweatshirt, both legs covered by a thick blanket. His abundance of dark brown hair shimmered with cleanliness in the dim lighting, and his sweet face was clearing up from the abrasions he'd suffered on the street. Their conversation was animated and punctuated with occasional laughter and they had their heads together like two teenagers with a juicy secret.

Jules was finally cleaned up also, and the raggedy old fatigues were gone. He wore a grey sweat suit similar to Roger's, heavy white socks and a pair of new white sneakers, probably hospital issue. Even his black hair had somehow lost that "crab grass" look, and his smooth bronze skin was so shiny it made him look like a four-year-old on his way to a wedding.

Wilson walked up to them and stopped, standing with hands in his pockets. "Hey, guys!"

They looked up, both at the same moment, smiles spreading, faces welcoming. "Hey Jimmy!" Roger held out his hand and Wilson took it with a gentle pressure that signaled reassurance. His brother's skin was softer now, healing rapidly.

"Hey Bro. Hi Jules. How are you guys doing? Thought I'd stop by and check in on you. Do you need anything?" He walked around the wheelchair and sat down on the settee at Jules' side.

"Actually, we're doing pretty well, aren't we Rodge?" The Jamaican lilt was pleasing to the ear.

Roger nodded. "Yeah, really. I'm feeling a lot better, Jimmy. I've been to hydrotherapy once and to PT twice … and that's just today. Maria and the ladies in PT are careful not to hurt me, but they say it's going to get a lot harder."

"And you know they're right, don't you?"

Roger nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, I do have some good news. Some friends and I went to my place today and moved a lot of furniture around so you guys have a room to yourselves downstairs. If I can make the necessary arrangements, I'm going to have you discharged on Monday, and you can move in out there. I'll drive you both to the hospital on the days you have therapy and drive you home at noon. The rest of the time you can do whatever you please. You can have the run of the house and the neighborhood and get to know the place and the people. When you're feeling up to it, we can give Mom and Dad a call and tell them about you. Is that okay with both of you?"

Their eyes met across the intervening space, and both of them nodded their heads at the same time. "I'd like that, Jimmy. I have a lot to make up for with the folks, and it just sounds wonderful," Roger admitted cautiously. "We aren't too popular around here, if you know what I mean."

"We sure aren't," Jules echoed.

"You're talking about the two guys back in your room?" Wilson asked. "Because if that's the case, I don't think they'll give you any more trouble. I was just in there looking for you, and they opened their big mouths without knowing who I was. So I told them!"

Jules laughed appreciatively. "Wish I could have seen that, mon …"

"It was short and sweet. If it were anyplace else other than this hospital, I might have stirred up a hornet's nest. Idiots like that just don't seem to know when to quit. But if they try anything else with either of you, my boss will come down on them like Lucifer's Hammer. Or if not her, then Dr. House would …"

"Greg?" Roger's ears suddenly perked up. "Where is he? Don't you two guys usually travel together?"

Wilson frowned. "Well, not always …"

"Where is he?" The topic suddenly veered away from intolerant rednecks and refocused onto Gregory House.

Wilson smiled indulgently and shook his head in frustration. There House was again! One offhand mention of his name, and Dr. House would jump into and dominate every conversation he'd ever had, except with those people who had never heard of him! (In this hospital, those were very few!) Even when the subject was so far off-topic as to be completely inconsequential, up he would pop again!

"As far as I know, he's at home. I dropped him off there about an hour ago. He needed some space and some down time, and I always give him that when he needs it."

"Is he all right?" There came the Wilson compassion again, thick within Roger's voice. There was concern in Jules' face also as they both looked at him. Wilson sighed. He could not fight it.

"He's fine, as far as I know. He said he was, anyhow, and I have no reason not to believe him." Wilson was not comfortable with the sidestepping of truth, but now was not the time to get into a discussion of House's health with the brother who was obviously feeling a deep connection to his crippled friend. Common ground was often an overwhelming motivator. Wilson sighed. Their attention was still riveted on him, expecting more information.

"He was tired," he finally admitted. "Worn out. He was on his feet most of the day. He did the cooking for everyone who helped with the move. He's probably zoned out in front of his TV right now, smoking a cigar and having himself a couple of beers. Resting."

They finally accepted that as an explanation, but Wilson knew that that was not the end of it. As gay men, he suspected they knew where things were headed between him and House, but were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt until he gave them enough rope to hang himself! He would let it go at that for now.

They spent another hour together. Wilson asked for a list of the things they would like for him to stock up with in refrigerator and pantry, and they laughingly gave him a long list. He asked for clothing sizes, and was astounded that neither of them had any idea. They had been on the streets so long that the question held no meaning for them. It made Wilson shudder in sorrow. "I suppose I'll just have to guess then," he said. "I can probably get stuff for both of you in the kids' department!"

They both found this funny, and he could understand why. But again, it struck him as sad.

Wilson left them a little after eight in the evening, saying he was not sure if he would see them the next day or not. He had a lot of shopping to do and errands to run. And he might even have a nice surprise for them.

He left them laughing and guessing, and waved from the doorway when he left.

He wanted to get back to Ridge Road before it was too late to call Vince Crane at his home. And he was hungry. One of Gregg's leftover cheeseburgers sounded good right about now.

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Vince answered his phone on the first ring. "Hallo … ?"

"Hey Vince!" Wilson took a bite of nuked cheeseburger and chewed lustily.

"Hi-ya, Jimmy … what's cookin'?"

"Not much. I'm tired. It's been a long day. But I've been thinking, Vince. I need a used car. Not the Toyota! What have you got?" He took another bite; chewed.

"For the boys, huh?"

"Yeah. You're reading my mind. They can't be stuck out here with no transportation. Something inexpensive … good on gas. And it needs to have room to transport Roger's wheelchair. Not sure yet how long he'll need to be in the damned thing …"

"Aha! I got an older car back in the shop that's in really good shape. Should be just about right for what you need. Dodge Shadow. Automatic. 1987. Woman traded it last Monday on a Jeep Wrangler. It's a metallic green two-door hatchback. The back seat lays down flat and you could fit the Washington Monument in there! Sound good?"

"Sounds like just what the doctor ordered. You gonna be over at the garage anytime tomorrow? I'll stop by and take a look." Wilson finished off the burger and wiped his fingers on his jeans with a flourish.

"How 'bout around noon? Jeanie is at her Mom's this weekend, and I need to catch up on paperwork. Maybe we can stop for a bite afterward, okay? Gregg and Billy coming along?"

"Nope, just me. Billy and Nancy had other plans, and Gregg … I think … is just kicking back and relaxing at home tonight … probably tomorrow too. Lunch sounds good though. I'll see you around noon."

"Sounds good, Jimmy. Hope Gregg's okay … So long now."

"'Bye."

Wilson hung up the phone. Why in hell would Vince Crane ask if Gregg House was okay?

Of _course_ he was okay … probably.

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156


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19 "I Need You!"

He was not in the mood for the classics. Not tonight.

Show tunes! Play the lighthearted stuff that would take his mind off his suffocating dark mood; turn his thoughts away from the black cloud that persisted in hanging over his head and making him feel like some sort of alien in his own mind.

_Jesus! I feel like crap for some reason …_

His incredibly long fingers noodled around over the keyboard in search of all the fluffy-assed melodies that kept hiding there; the ones that still eluded him and made him concentrate to uncover the strains that still bounded away, just out of reach. The music he searched for was in his head _somewhere_ … songs of love and moonlight and hoo-ha-hay and "happily-ever-aftering" that made every view of the world look a little like Camelot. Or Oklahoma … "a bright golden haze on the meadow". Like Kismet … "No other love have I …"

Then: "Midnight … not a sound from the pavement …"

His hands splayed on the keys and he was in the South Pacific: "This Nearly was Mine". And Oliver: "Where is Love?" Kiss Me Kate: "Wunderbar." Kismet: "Baubles, Bangles and Beads."

Was there a theme emerging here somewhere? If so, what was it? The songs he was playing were not the ones he might have chosen, but melancholy things, and mournful-mixed-with-happy, that dripped from his fingertips like medicine from an eyedropper. He could feel their mocking-giddy grace; breathe their hopelessness and their idyllic cheer. Undisciplined as his sudden turn of mind, mutating into the fear and false hope of everything he'd ever tried to turn away from, but from which he could never find an escape. The piano was not his ally tonight.

His right foot had been too long upon the _sustain_ petal. Pain was moving steadily up his leg, into his knee, to settle in his damaged thigh.

It was the ache that finally broke the spell. His hands dropped into his lap, fingers smarting from their unrelenting assault on the keys. That was not music he'd been playing. It had been his frustrations coming out. The anger and the fear and the doubt assailed him over his own misgivings about two young men whose motives he could not quite read. Jules' purposes here were still a mystery, and his blind suspicions were digging at his consciousness.

From the sounding board above his bowed head, the Vicodin bottle mocked him.

"_You Need Me!"_

He looked up, reached a hand and snatched it down, tipped off the lid and dry swallowed one. Then another. The escalating pain mocked him also. He tried to ignore it, but it was no good.

"_Not Tonight!"_

For the first in a long time, Gregory House felt an uncertainty about his own abilities beginning to creep into his consciousness. He had no clue in the world upon which to pin his suspicions about this kid. Or the other kid. Nothing! But the misgivings that flooded his mind with doubt would not let go, and in his heart and his mind's eye he saw James Wilson getting hurt. Physically hurt? Perhaps an even deeper hurt: Wilson's innate propensity to trust everyone unconditionally, gone bad.

_Ahh, Jimmy! I have nothing to offer but my own foreboding … the stupid fear that something really rotten is going to happen … and sweet Jesus …not you! … I can't cause you to doubt the love of the brother you haven't seen in so long! … but I'm afraid I'm going to lose you somehow … either way!_

He rubbed at his leg, but the pain was unrelenting this time, not all of it physical.

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Billy Travis was on his lunch break. Nancy had packed him leftover lasagna in a good-sized Tupperware bowl. He'd nuked it and scarfed it down like a hungry hound dog. God, that woman could cook! He just had to marry her, and that was all there was to it! He smiled to himself. Nancy was no pushover. She might have something to say about that.

The second and third floors were quiet and his staff was around and about, doing their jobs, doing him proud. He'd visited Roger and Jules on his lunch break the past two nights, finding them in the dayroom at 3:00 a.m. both nights. He ignored the elevator and took the steps down one floor, coming out in the hallway about a dozen steps from the dayroom entrance.

They were there, as usual, Rodge in the wheelchair and Jules on the settee at his elbow. Roger was nodding a little, and Jules' hand was on his upper arm, caressing it gently as the other man drifted off into a restless sleep.

Travis walked across the floor like a giant black shadow, soundlessly on size-thirteen tennis shoes. His brow was knit at their positions in proximity to each other, and he eyed Jules with a silent question.

_What gives?_

Jules inclined his head, inviting the huge RN closer and Billy lowered himself by the smaller man's side. "His legs hurtin', mon," Jules whispered. "Even with the meds and massage. Maria knows he's beginning to feel the differences the PT is making in the muscles and tendons. But he's having trouble sleeping tonight, and the two jerks in the room … they keep bitchin' him out. So we come out here again. Night nurse give him something for sleeping. When he goes to sleep, I will stretch out on the sofa."

Billy curled his hand and touched Roger's cheek gently with the backs of his fingers. "His temperature seems fine to me. I'd hate to wake him up just to stick the oral thermometer in his mouth. How long ago did she give him the meds?"

"Not quite an hour ago. He's been restless, but I think they're working now."

Billy nodded agreement. "Looks that way. Jules, he's going to have a lot of pain as he works on strengthening his legs, but he'll get through it. If he's anything like his brother, then he has a spirit and a determination that rivals a damn wolverine! You wouldn't think it to look at him, but I've known Jimmy for of whole lot of years, and I've seen what he can do. I think Gregg House gets around as well as he does, partly due to the jackass stubbornness of your friend's brother. Jimmy grabs on like a bulldog and won't let go. He bullied the hell out of Gregg and wouldn't let him quit." Billy pulled a chagrined face for a moment, and then shrugged. "He may do the same thing with Roger. Just thought I'd warn you! That little tidbit of information shall, of course, remain sacred between you and me … dig?"

Jules blinked. Then winked. "Dig, Dude!" He said.

Billy Travis made no further comment about the two men hanging out in the dayroom at all hours of the night. They'd done it before and they would probably do it again. The second floor wasn't normally his domain or his responsibility. He was only filling in. When his lunch break was over, he said a whispered goodnight and took the stairs back to the third floor.

Jules looked after him speculatively.

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James Wilson unlocked the back door and stepped into his kitchen. He threw the car keys on the table, turned on the light in the downstairs bathroom and turned on the hot water full force. He hurried upstairs for clean underwear and a comfortable sweat suit, then came back down, stripped and stepped into the relaxing heat of the hot spray.

What a day! He was tired beyond measure, and the thought of stretching out somewhere flat and getting a little extra sleep, seemed almost orgasmic. He was surprised at himself for thinking that. Julie had been gone for … what? … three weeks now, give-or-take, and he had not missed her; had not even given her absence more than a passing thought, except when her name had come up in casual conversation.

He must be slipping! He'd gone on the prowl again almost before the ink was dry on his first two divorce decrees. This time, however, not so! No carnal thoughts, no urgent desire, no wet dreams, no itch that needed scratched, and not even a mild urge to troll the bars or linger near any nurses' stations … or even Debbie in Accounting. His sexual fantasies were down, his erotic imaginings under control, his cock flaccid.

What the hell did _that_ mean? He must _really_ be getting old!

James stepped out of the shower and dried off with the same towel he'd used early that morning. God, it felt good to just languish. He pulled on his old, navy blue sweat suit, tossed the towel in the hamper and padded barefoot out to the kitchen in search of a snack to take along on his quest to flop somewhere. He could feel the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he thought again about the strange influence Gregory House had upon his life. Only recently had he given any thought to dragging food along to bed with him. Gregg had gotten him started on that untidy habit, and it was all House's fault! He rummaged through the refrigerator and came up with a handful of baby carrots and a dill pickle. He placed them all on a small paper plate, turned out the light and retreated to the old sofa bed that now occupied the living room. He flopped down, set his goodies on the coffee table and grabbed the TV remote. In one motion, he lifted his feet onto the coffee table, scooped up the paper plate and flicked on the TV.

_Sooo "Gregory Hous-ish"!_

And the enigmatic gentleman was back in his thoughts again! He wondered what House was doing at this hour. It was pushing 11:30 p.m., and there were no messages on the answering machine. Evidently Gregg was holed up at home and determined to keep his own counsel the rest of the weekend. Wilson knew his friend seldom initiated a phone call unless he wanted something, but once in a blue moon he would deign to touch base when James knew he was troubled about something and requested that he check in.

_Call me if anything changes …_

_Yeah …_

No call. No word. Nothing. Blank spaces looming with zilch to fill them. Wilson crunched on a carrot and flipped the channel changer on the remote. Fred Friendly's "Vast Wasteland!" Some things never changed, even after the passage of forty-something years. He set the thing on ESPN2 and muted the sound. Another annoying habit of House's, and the realization that he was doing the same thing in stark imitation, hit him over the head.

"Damn!"

He was surprised he'd said it out loud.

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Gregg's bed felt hard tonight. The sheets, pillows, quilt and blanket were in wild disarray around him and there were no comfortable positions. He'd left the lamp on the bedside table dimmed to its lowest setting, and its glow cast gray shadows of the room's furnishings pale against the far wall. The room was warm tonight, thanks mostly to a slight break in the weather, and there was no wind whistling in the eaves to heighten the sensation of chill.

His outer clothing, shoes and socks were dropped haphazardly on the floor, far enough away from the bed so that he would not accidentally become entangled in them if he must get up in the middle of the night. He lay spread-eagled atop the bed covers in tee shirt and briefs.

Saturday night, and he was lonely. He was worried. And he was in pain. The Vicodin he'd swallowed a half hour before had not yet dulled the ache, and the throb extended from his knee all the way to the middle of his back, making him nervous and restless. He'd tried a glass of scotch after he began hitting more cracks than keys on the piano. Two swallows later it was nauseating him. Sometimes booze worked like a charm; other times it did just the opposite. Tonight had been the night of opposites. His restless mind played morbid scenarios inside his head and mixed it all in with other snatches of disjointed thought until he could not separate them anymore. He finally let it all run wild until he pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyeballs and turned the visions into a frenzied cascade of color that burst outward against a dreamscape horizon.

He thought of Stacy and their few years of happiness until it all fell apart in accusation, bitterness and frustration, and their harsh words to each other could no longer be forgiven or reconciled. It had hurt. More than the leg! It had been the beginning of the end of trust.

He thought of his parents and their Nomadic, insane lifestyle that dragged his younger self all over the globe in the name of national security, to never have a real "best friend" or a momentary feeling of "home". Only discipline and regimen, which he'd shucked forever on the same day he moved permanently out of their latest base-housing cracker box.

He thought kindly of Lisa Cuddy and their brief liaison during their whirlwind college years when everything was truth or dare, and she had shared his bed and his wild-oats days, and then come to him one day in a panic over a missed period. She'd been a week late, but the guilt and tension had killed their short love affair. To this day they still circled each other like two bull elk in rut, still guarding against one another, although the competition had mellowed into a grudging friendship that neither of them could ever define if their lives depended upon it.

He thought of Roger and Jules and their love and Roger's illness and the "something" about them that bothered him greatly and made his mouth go dry whenever they met. He wondered if the young men felt the same way about him. As if that mattered! And yet it did, in a way, because one kid's lover was also Wilson's brother.

_Damn fate!_

Groaning, he rolled over onto his left side and dragged the reluctant right leg over on top the left. The fingers of his right hand found the scar and began to caress the remaining muscles gently, trying to coax away the soreness and the bone-deep hurt that, even after all these years, still invoked the need to scream sometimes. And he remembered Wilson's soft hands upon him earlier in the week, carefully kneading, caressing the hurt away. Soothing circles, stroking his skin until he began to relax under Wilson's caring touch. Causing him to feel like a wet dishrag, lulled into painless stupor. Comforted and comfortable. And he thought of James and how well the smaller man fit right here on this big bed, spooned gently against him, and how under those circumstances he did not mind at all if James Wilson looked out for and comforted and protected him. Wilson was the only person in the world who could do such a thing without fear of being pushed away permanently.

He remembered Wilson's look of worry that followed him into the elevator earlier tonight when he'd dropped him off and then continued on home. "Call me if anything changes!" Wilson had said. And as usual, he'd thrown a careless "yeah, okay" … or something like that … over his shoulder and had not looked back. Of course he hadn't called. If he knew James, his friend would not expect him to call. He was just leaving the connecting door of possibility and chance unlatched. It was (of course!) part of their understanding of each other.

Gregory House rolled over again, onto his back, and let the damaged limb ease down onto the mattress. From here he could reach the bedside phone.

James answered sleepily on the fourth ring, just before the machine picked up.

"Hello?" (He probably hadn't looked at the caller I. D.)

"Hey …"

"Hey! House? What's wrong?" The mild voice honed to an edge.

"Nothing." He paused and let the silence lengthen between them.

"Then … _what_?" Tension and worry so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"I need you."

"I'm coming … give me half an hour!" The phone went dead.

House hung up … eased his body back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

_Wunderbar!_

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162


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20 "Jules and Roger"

Maria Colby arrived for her shift at precisely 6:45 a.m. She took off her coat and hat and placed them in her locker. She double checked the whiteness of her uniform trousers and sneakers and smoothed the nylon-blend scrub top with Mickey and Minnie Mouse images all over it. She washed her hands thoroughly at one of the lavs, checked her French braid and makeup in the mirror, grabbed her purse and headed out to the second floor nurse's station. Nancy Franklin had arrived a moment ahead of her and was checking med lists and night reports with Claudia and Benj, the outgoing night shift RNs. Maria walked over to where they were standing, shoved her purse in a file drawer, and greeted her colleagues, listening to the shift-change banter and catch-up instructions before grabbing two styro cups to pour fresh, fragrant coffee for herself and Nancy.

After Claudia and Benj checked out, Maria and Nancy passed on all pertinent information to the gathering group of LPNs, Physicians' Assistants and orderlies who had checked in as day shift got itself together and up and running. There was nothing new or shocking to report today, no new admissions yet this morning, and no one had expired during the previous night. Their subordinates received their assignments and scattered to the first order of the day: early meds and special instructions for appointments, PT, surgeries, hydro and the like. Then the chaos of breakfast!

In the wards, patients were waking up, doing morning ablutions and beginning to bleed into the hallways for another day of pacing, wheeling, limping, being pushed and pulled and guided; most bitching heatedly about one thing or another. Actually, the whole scenario marked the beginning of a very normal day for the residents of the second floor.

Across from the nurse's station, the stairway door beside the bank of elevators was being maneuvered open by a broad shoulder, and Billy Travis, just finishing his shift, emerged with a thump. Travis walked across to the counter where his fiancé and Maria Colby were still working at reviewing night shift's notes for addition to daytime charts and checking Attending's reports. Nancy looked up and saw him and smiled widely. "Hi, Sweetie," she said. "You look tired."

Maria also, looked up from their conversation and smiled. "G'Morning, Big Guy! Would you like a cup of coffee? It's fresh, and you look like you could use it."

"Ahhh … Maria … I'd shine your shoes for a month for a cup of that coffee. It smells wonderful, and my 'you-know-what' is draggin' my tracks shut."

She was pouring a tall cup as he spoke, smiling at his words. "That's a sorry old joke, Mister Travis. Shining sneakers is a lost cause, and your 'you-know-what' has been completely out of the running, since Nance came along! Do you give back rubs instead?" She handed the coffee cup into his waiting hands. "Black, right?"

"Yup," he answered. "Just like me! I _have_ been known to give back rubs to die for, though." He took a sip of the hot brew and sighed in satisfaction, then leaned across the counter to plant a chaste kiss on his pretty girlfriend's forehead. "I need to talk to you guys about something."

They both paused what they were doing to look at him, both all ears. "What's up?" Maria asked.

"The boys in room 220. I took a sneak down here last night to see how they're making out … Jimmy's brother and all … and I find them both in the dayroom. Roger was half asleep in his wheelchair and Jules was getting ready to stretch out on the settee. Seems the other two idiots in their room keep giving them a hard time about being gay … and they were trying to avoid a confrontation, I guess. I told them to go ahead and go back to their room and let me know if they ran into anymore crap. I went back and told the two idiots the same thing. I just thought I'd let you two know what's going on in case the 'Brain Dead Brothers' decided not to take my 'advice'."

Nancy shook her head angrily. "The boys haven't said a thing as far as I know." She looked across at her supervisor. "Have you heard anything?" Then she shook her head again. "No, of course you haven't, or you'd have told me."

Maria corroborated Nancy's statement with the shake of her own head and a pair of angrily raised eyebrows. "No one from night shift said anything," she agreed. "Are the boys afraid to speak up? Poor little Roger couldn't do much against either of them if they tried to hurt him. I'm not sure about Julie … but he's not much bigger, and certainly not any stronger. They're both still in sad shape from living on the streets."

"That's what I thought," Billy said. "I think they were afraid to open their mouths before I talked to them last night. I also think they waited until after bed check before they went out to the dayroom, in case anyone wanted to know why they weren't in bed. Nobody on night shift knew they weren't there."

"Well, I'll take care of this crap real quick, Billy. Thanks for the heads up. Pook and Joe are both a pain where a pill can't reach anyhow, if you know what I mean. Neither one of them is really sick anymore. As soon as Pook's blood pressure comes under control, he can be discharged. Probably in a few days. Joe may be here awhile yet. The foot infection from his diabetes needs to be kept a close watch on, or he's going to lose it. But he's not so sick that I can't give him royal hell …" Maria rolled her eyes and tossed her head angrily again and reached over to make a notation on both men's charts. "There! Now everybody on all shifts will be aware of their crap. Trust me, it won't happen again."

"Thanks," Billy said. "I appreciate that. "Try not to make a big deal of it to Jimmy Wilson, okay? He's worried enough about his brother. And he already has one big, tall, skinny millstone hangin' around his neck!" Billy grinned. "I don't have to mention any names, right?"

Both women smiled in understanding. Nancy reached across the counter and upward to touch her fiancé's cheek. "Thank _you_, sweetheart. Now get your big, handsome carcass back home and into the sack, okay?"

Billy Travis took her tiny hand into both his huge paws and kissed it gently. "I'm gonna do just that," he said. "See you when you get home." He let her hand fall from his and turned to go. "See ya, Maria."

"'Bye Big Guy!" They echoed, but by then he was gone.

Both women finished their coffee, turned off the machine, threw their cups in the garbage and began their day in earnest.

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Jules LeBeque was not the fragile flower that his outward appearance seemed to suggest. His small bone structure and diminutive stature hid a wiry body and taut little muscles that could certainly do their share in pulling his weight, however one chose to interpret that phrase. At the moment, he was far below par, but that would correct itself in a short time. Due to Roger's illness, their luck had been less than perfect for quite awhile.

Jules had been born of wealthy parents; influential people whose ancestors had been refugees of the disastrous earthquake in the late 1600s which destroyed much of the city of Port Royal. These people witnessed the birth of Kingston from the after-math of tragedy, and were among the first to begin an outward expansion and move their family businesses to the rich farmlands in the north, on the plains of Liguanea.

The farm had passed down through the generations until finally it fell into the hands of Jules' father, a lazy ne'er-do-well. Jaque LeBeque was an over-indulged only child who grew up to become a drunkard who beat his wife and abused his children. His excesses finally ran the family business into the ground. Jules' only sibling, an older sister named Freda managed to marry well and escaped to Discovery Bay by the age of eighteen.

Jules, not so lucky, and four years younger, landed on the streets of Kingston a month after his fifteenth birthday. There he was quickly made the darling of an underground group of clandestine men who preyed on young beautiful boys. These degenerates made easy money selling his graceful body to questionable clients. The shadowy transients they served were forever on the prowl for sexual favors as perverted as their predatory lifestyles.

Jules bided his time and waited for his chance. One midnight during a heavy rainstorm, he ran for it. He hid during the day and traveled at night. A steamer out of Montego Bay employed a purser with questionable tastes. Using the only tool he had at his command, his lithe body, Jules managed to charm his way on board by passing himself off as a member of a rich American family on their way home from holiday. His skin tone matched quite well, and his accent was flawless. As the ship docked in New York Harbor, Jules slipped into the cold, polluted water and made his way to shore. He had lived by his wits on the streets of America ever since.

At least, that was the story he related to Philip Roger Wilson when they met in Cheyenne, Wyoming years later.

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Phillip R. Wilson hated his German-Jewish heritage. He didn't know why; he just hated it. Very early on, he had shied away from everything to do with that faith.

"God stuff! Yuk!"

When his grandfather died, he watched his mother covering up all the mirrors and thought: _These people are not right in the head!_ When his cousin got married, he saw no sense in smashing perfectly good crystal goblets to smithereens. _They're all nuts!_ By the time he was nine, he had flushed five yarmulkes down the toilet. Plugged up the plumbing the last time. That's how his mother found out. She yelled at him and beat his behind with a yardstick, then went upstairs and cried over it. When his father came home from work, he yelled at his mother for crying and she screamed at him for yelling. She called him a "Putz". He called her a "Schmuck". And Philip laughed his ass off!

His brother Jimmy was scandalized. Jimmy was such a good boy, quiet and studious. But Jimmy never ratted him out. Jimmy understood, and he was the only one who called him "Roger". Jimmy was two years older. Their brother Tommy was the family security guard. He would have ratted out his own grandmother for putting her false teeth on the corner of the sink. Roger and Jimmy snuck around behind Tommy's back with everything they did. Tommy was a lot older than they were. He was seventeen. Too close to being a grown-up to be trusted!

When he was nine-and-a-half, Philip contracted polio. Infantile Paralysis. The muscles in his legs turned to concrete and he could not stand, he could not walk, he could not even crawl. He screamed from the pain until his throat was raw, and then he screamed some more. He was in the hospital for a month. The drugs they gave him to stop the pain were highly addictive, and they allowed him only small amounts. His parents coddled him, spoiled him. Indulged him. He got used to it and played it to his advantage every chance he got. But the meds kind of screwed up puberty for him later on and confused him about who and what he was. That sucked! He was already confused about some of his thoughts and feelings. You could get too much of a good thing!

Doctors, nurses and his parents, spent hours and hours bending his legs … and straightening. Bending and straightening. He had to take hot baths, as many as four times a day. The heat helped, but he was still in pain.

The pills they gave him were yucky. He began to spit them all out the hole in the screen in the window beside his bed. A few weeks later, the neighbor's yappy little dog, which always wandered into the Wilson's yard to take a shit, fell over dead. Ker-plop! Philip quickly figured out why, but it was a mystery to everyone else. The neighbors got another dog that yapped if the leaves rustled or a car door closed. It also wandered into the Wilson's yard to poop. It went "ker-plop" too.

Those neighbors, thereafter, eyed the Wilson family with suspicion, but they didn't get another dog. Instead, they soon moved away.

Sometimes Philip snickered into his armpit after he had spit all the rest of the pills out the window. Nobody ever found any of them. Or if they did, they never told. No more yappy little dogs moved into the neighborhood.

He hated the heavy metal braces on his legs with a purple passion. They hurt. They rubbed. They sometimes left open sores. But they were necessary in order for him to walk.

He did not pray to God for divine intervention in getting well. He cursed every "God" which had ever sprung forth upon a gullible world, and swore on a Gentile's bible, (how insane was _that_?) that he was through with religion forever!

His legs got better eventually, but he knew that no "God" had had anything to do with it. His parents had frightened the hell out of his stiffness and pain with their sheer veracity, and it finally gave up and went away to find some other little kid to torture. He was in a wheelchair for months. Then he walked with braces and crutches for months, and with braces and arm canes for more months, and a cane with no braces for even longer. Then, finally, he was pronounced "well". He limped slightly after that, but the worst of it was over. Philip had just turned twelve.

On his thirteenth birthday they expected him to do a Bar Mitzvah. On a Saturday morning, for Christ's sake! (He always caught hell for saying "Christ", and caught hell for saying "hell". Injustices for kids were legion!) Saturday mornings were sacred to thirteen-year-olds!

Instead, he broke into his savings bank, stuffed fifty one-dollar bills, plus change, into a jeans pocket and sneaked off to the Bronx Zoo by bus with Meeko, a colored friend who went to a Baptist church somewhere on another block. _Happy Birthday to me!_ Philip hadn't studied any of that boring Bar Mitzvah shit they wanted him to memorize anyhow. He'd put all the religious crap in the burner barrel out back. Lit it and ran! Philip loved sneakery and excitement. The more dangerous, the better!

After six-or-so hours, his parents were frantic. Their youngest son was missing and they called the cops. Philip and Meeko came home from the zoo to see about a half-dozen squad cars lining the street. "What's up?" They asked one of the cops.

"Who are you?" A cop asked suspiciously.

"I'm Roger," Philip said.

"I'm Meeko. Somebody rob the cigar store?"

He got his ass whopped for that incident. But after that, everyone left him alone where religion was concerned. Except that Tom kept calling him a _shiksa_. He clammed up and did not dignify the insult with a reply. It pissed Tom off, and he clammed up too.

Philip finished high school and went to college. He thereafter insisted on being called "Roger". He received a B. S. in Education. He straightened up some during his college years. He never "got religion", but neither did he continue to decry the beliefs of anyone else. He was different, but he still did not understand what that difference was. He preferred the company of men to that of women. It drove him crazy.

He enlisted in the Air Force and took OCS training at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio. He had lost most of the limp, and the bout with polio never came up. There, he met men he liked very much and did not have to associate with women if he didn't want to. He didn't want to. He was beginning to understand a few important things about himself. Sometimes those things frightened him.

His permanent assignment was Francis E. Warren AFB in Cheyenne, Wyoming. It was a training base, and he met someone special. When he got the flu and didn't show up for duty one morning, an Air Police Sergeant found him passed out and naked on his bunk in his quarters.

A photograph of his naked boyfriend was found next to his bed on the floor. Questions were asked, and that was the beginning of the end. Second Lt. Wilson never made First Lieutenant! His polio had posed no problem. Being gay in the military, however, had gotten him a general discharge. Go figure!

Roger took a job as a short-order cook at The Owl Inn in Cheyenne. Old timers used to call the place "The Dirty Bird". The Air Force used it as a hangout.

It was there he met Jules LeBeque.

It was a match made … somewhere. Definitely not heaven!

xxxxxxx

Saturday night:

James Wilson used his own key to unlock Gregg House's front door. He let himself into the entryway, then moved to the darkened living room and stood still until his eyes became adjusted to the gloom. A quiet voice called out to him softly.

"Over here …"

House was on the couch. He was smoking one of his smelly cigars and … surprise … no booze. He had a can of Pepsi in his other hand. He was wearing sweat pants. Grey ones, not blue like Wilson's, and a plain white tee shirt. His left leg was cocked against the back of the couch and there was a bed pillow beneath his right knee.

Wilson walked across and sat down at the opposite end of the couch. He placed a hand casually on top of House's bare foot. "Hurt?"

Gregg nodded; a haze of shifting shadows in the half-light. "Some. Better than it was, I guess." Which meant it had hurt like hell earlier.

"You should have said something. I could have brought the moist pad …"

"I forgot."

"Me too … but I got it for you, you know."

"I know."

A comfortable silence curled around them for a time. Just the quiet. No TV, no stereo, no traffic sounds. Wilson could smell the faint scent of the cigar. Fading. House had let it go out in deference to his friend who didn't care for them much.

"Are there more Pepsis in the fridge?" Wilson asked finally.

"Yeah. Help yourself."

"Thanks." Wilson got up, removed his coat, kicked off his moccasins and padded silently to the kitchen. He came back presently and they heard the crack of the can popping open in the stark silence. He sat down again at the end of the sofa and put his cold, wet hand back on the top of House's foot. Gregg grunted, but didn't move. Wilson reached his thumb beneath the arch and began to massage the tendons on the sole of House's long, slender foot.

"Your feet stink!" He declared in a teasing tone.

House glared. "They do not!"

"Oh yeah! They do! Feel good?"

"Yeah … feels great … but you're full of shit. My feet don't stink. I just had a shower."

Wilson drank his soda and continued to work House's foot with his thumb, but he was smiling inside. Their silence stretched comfortably … almost like a lullaby … between them.

Finally, Wilson asked, "What's wrong, House? You sounded a little 'down' awhile ago."

"I'm not sure 'down' is what I am."

"Meaning?"

"More like … 'spooked' … if that makes any sense."

"Spooked how?"

"Spooked about … 'George and Gracie'."

"'George and Gracie'? You mean Rodge and Jules?"

"Um hum."

"You're going to have to give me more than that."

"I keep getting this chill in the marrow of my bones. Something is off … and I don't know what it is. You know how I get when there's a mystery."

"Oh yeah. I do. What bothers you most?" Already Wilson was asking questions. Helping him dig.

"There's a sense of gloom and doom I can feel. Something is off … like I said … but I can't put my finger on it. Something's warning me that you're going to get hurt. I don't like that much."

"I think you're wrong, House. I think you're nervous about these huge sudden changes in our lives. It's like that old song about an irresistible force pushing up against an immovable object. 'Somethin's Gotta Give'. Please don't worry. It'll be fine. Once I get Roger discharged and get the guys out on Ridge Road, some of it will ease up … and then maybe we can figure out what's going on between _us!"_

"I hope you're the one who's right this time, Buckaroo. I'm just telling you …"

"I know. But it'll be okay. Look … I'm tired. Can we go to bed now? I'd like to hold you … if you'll let me."

"I'll let you, I think. I'm tired too. It's been a weird week. My damn leg hurts."

"I know."

They settled carefully onto the disheveled bed together, House on his left side, Wilson spooned tight against him. Wilson's right hand gently cupped the sharp angle of House's right shoulder. It was 1:00 a.m.

"House?"

"What?"

"I have a mission tomorrow. Do you think you'll be up to driving from downtown to Ridge Road?"

"Probably. What's up?"

"I'll tell you in the morning. Go to sleep, House."

He did. They both did.

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171


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21 "Me 'n' My Shadow"

When James Wilson first opened his eyes Sunday morning, he found that he was no longer spooned against Gregory House, as they had been when they went to bed the night before. Sometime during the night Gregg had turned himself all the way around in the bed. He was flat on his back with his head at the foot end and turned toward the wall, covers bunched beneath him. The thing was, as James saw it, House's defensive mechanisms were in full play even while he slept. His gamy leg was half on a pillow again, but it was on the opposite side where it was safe from nocturnal mishaps. Somehow, the realization that this might be so, made Wilson a little sad. Even the unconscious guarding against more pain where there was already too much, must terrify Gregg even more than Wilson had thought. He held his own body still and just watched his friend's uncomfortable posture.

Thirty seconds later, the straw-stack head turned deliberately in Wilson's direction and the electric blue eyes pinned him in place where he lay. House had not been asleep. "Damn it, Wilson, your eyes are burning a hole in the side of my head!"

A sense of guilt crept up James' body for staring too long and thinking too much. "I'm sorry," he began. "I thought you were asleep. I just …"

"Jimmy. I know what you were doing. I can read your mind. Not only that, but your thoughts are still seared in flame with that guilty look on your face."

"Oh yeah?" Wilson cocked an arm and leaned his head on his hand. "So what was I thinking?"

"You were pitying the cripple!"

"I was not!"

"A lie is a crappy way to start the day." House gathered himself with his weight on both arms and slid to a gradual sitting position. His leg slid off the pillow and slipped over the edge of the bed. Impaired muscles had no strength to halt the downward momentum, and Wilson heard Gregg's heel hit the rug on the other side with a soft thump. "Ow! Fuck!"

"House?"

A hand came up in warning. "It's all right. Just surprised me is all." He shook his head, sighed and leaned backward again onto both elbows.

Wilson moved around to grasp his friend's shoulders, then reached under both arms and dragged him carefully across the mattress until both legs were safely on the surface. When he was finished, their faces were nose to nose at the foot of the bed. They were both grinning. House arched his back, brought his stubbled face upward in a quick maneuver and touched his lips to Wilson's mouth in a gentle suggestion, causing his startled friend to shy away in surprise.

"_Whaat!" _ House taunted in a teasing voice. "You didn't want me to do that?"

"Jesus, House! I …"

"You don't _believe _in Jesus!" House reached out again and pulled Wilson's mouth back against his own. "You didn't want me to do that either?"

Wilson frowned and blinked, but he was ready this time. He grabbed House's tee shirt quickly, closing the gap between them to return the kiss. He was dead serious. He forced his tongue easily between House's teeth until Gregg pulled back in equal surprise.

"I guess you got it right the first time," Wilson purred, eyebrows rising in smug satisfaction.

This time when they came together it was mutual. No more pulling away, no more expressions of startled innocence, and certainly no more embarrassed restraint. The next kiss was tender and deep and full of breathless promise.

"So how does _that _strike you?" Wilson teased.

"Two more strikes like that and I'm fuckin' _out!_" House whispered.

They embraced at last, both trembling with anticipation. Both could feel the beginnings of pent-up emotions turning physical. Both knew that the moment they'd each been anticipating so long was finally at hand. Neither man could tear his attention away from the other's face; neither man could wait any longer. They removed their remaining clothing very slowly and deliberately, eyes locked and glittering. This was too important; too intimate a moment to be taken lightly. They moved with care, gentle with each other though still clumsy in the newness, each knowing it was a unique experience for both.

Soft, supple doctors' hands moved with shy, tentative grazes against each other's skin, examining avenues where they had never dared venture before. Not rushing, not crashing upon each other's space with the wild abandon of foolish exuberance. Instead, they were now exploring, learning, mapping the vast differences in loving an all-male landscape.

This was so much more than an adventure. It was a step into a different reality; the furthest they had ever been with each other physically outside their own fantasies. It was nearly dream-like in the excitement of discovery. James Wilson held Gregory House's face gently between both hands, dark eyes mapping out every centimeter of weathered scruffiness. He kissed the tip of Gregg's nose, smiling blissfully, while House allowed it to happen with a startled-fascinated expression of his own. He, in turn, tousled James' thick auburn hair, running it between his fingers, experiencing the silky texture with childish wonder. He had touched Wilson's hair before, but only as a fleeting dash of friendly affection. It was the same this time, but also lingering, and so much deeper, almost possessive. Wanton.

Slowly, softly, they clung together and aligned the lengths of their slender, linear male bodies. They edged closer, experimenting; chests, bellies, hips, erections thickening, straining outward, one against the other, making their guts churn and their breaths quicken. But still they did not push. It would come in natural fashion or it would not come at all. They wanted it to last as long as humanly possible; drink in the essences, each from the other in breathless proximity until the bottom dropped out of the world which sustained them and everything around them went up in glorious fireworks that set their souls aflame.

Their legs began to entwine, as legs must under such circumstances, and now Wilson must become the dominant partner. There was a chance of danger here, resulting in accidental harm and painful aftermath. He must not allow it, or the joy for both of them would be lost. Together they explored the possibilities with tender caution until they discovered that it was indeed possible for them to fit together intimately and still find a modicum of safety for a crippled man's damaged leg. With this question answered at last, they were free to find the highest pinnacle of erotic human sensation and explore that also.

Their arousal intensified.

They rolled together, embracing, Wilson still dominating and initiating a unique canted rhythm, the way it had to be between them, each reaching inward and down, caressing each other's hardness with mounting fervor. Their bodies responded eagerly, shafts pulsating with growing demand, physical excitement peaking in unison and erections straining sensuously within the grasp of each other's flesh. Their bodily fluids surfaced in lustful eruptions, slicking their cocks, pulling their life essences, molten, to lubricate their skin. The climax sapped their strength and merged their energies with a final surge that united them in an erupting supernova of being.

Spent, they lay with limbs still entwined, whimpering like puppies sated with mother's milk. Breathless. Exhausted and empty, yet fulfilled. Wilson caressed House's hair, soft now with sweat. Gregg's gaunt body was musky with the aftermath of joyous post-coital repose.

House's shoulder cradled Wilson's cheek while his long fingers reached for and fondled a soft earlobe. Gregg felt weak and exhausted, totally amazed and pain-free.

After a time they rolled apart, still spent. On their backs, relaxed as deflated balloons, looking, studying, staring at each other's faces. Fascinated, startled, bemused.

"I love you."

"And I love you. I thought it could never happen again. But it has."

They lay like that for nearly an hour, allowing their bodies to recover. They embraced again, tenderly. Then they got up, showered, helped get each other dressed. Wilson tied House's shoes. They tore the bed apart and remade it. Walked silently to the kitchen and made coffee at 10:00 a.m. Somehow they resumed their normal, snarky banter. But their tone had changed. Awed.

They had become shadows upon one another: dark and light.

"You haven't taken a Vicodin today yet."

"I noticed that. My angry friend noticed it too."

"Going to? Better do it before your angry friend _really_ hurts!"

"Probably should, I guess."

They left the house at 11:15 a.m. and got into the Pacifica. Wilson backed out of the garage and headed toward town via Ridge Road and Rt. 206.

"Where are we going? You still haven't told me."

"Oh yeah … guess you do need to know, don't you? Is your leg good enough that you can drive?"

"Yeah … You did ask me last night if I thought I could drive today. Well, I can. So?"

"So, we're going to Vince's."

"What for?"

"Bought a car."

"You bought a _what_?"

"You heard me."

"What kind of car?"

"Old Dodge Shadow."

"What-the-hell for? Ahhhhhh … never mind … got it!"

"Yep."

"So, now I get to drive the beater, huh?"

"No, House … I get to drive the beater! You get to drive _this!_"

"Oh joy! Lucky me! I get to pilot the cruise ship, and you get to paddle the canoe. This venture has 'disaster' written all over it. So you bought another car … for George and Gracie, I presume."

"Who? Oh yeah … right!"

"'Roger Rabbit' and 'Jools Siviter'."

"Shut up, House! Smartass!"

"Yes, dear."

Some of House's former uneasiness came floating back. He did not voice it.

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Wilson wrote out a check for the Shadow. They visited with Vince Crane in his private office until Vince had to watch Gregg lift his bad leg with both hands and prop it on a stool. After that, Vince averted his eyes and began to squirm with discomfort. They got up again and said their goodbyes. By then, House was grinding his teeth, but holding back any scathing comments. He and Wilson got into the two vastly different vehicles and headed back north on 206.

They pulled in for lunch at Appleby's, ate like starving bears, staring intently at each other the whole time, intrigued and filled with a strange sense of wonder. They then got back into the cars and continued toward home.

House pulled the Pacifica into the garage and Wilson parked outside, all the way over near the opposite side of the driveway.

Wilson met him as they both went up the two steps into the kitchen. House mounted them with effort, planting his cane firmly, and Wilson stayed close behind him in case his leg buckled. Fortunately it didn't.

"It's not a bad car for three hundred bucks," Wilson said. "It's a four-cylinder … hatchback … lots of room for the wheelchair. 150,000 miles. Runs good. Doesn't use oil. Carpets are shot though, but I can get some rubber floor mats. There's a cigarette burn in the passenger seat, so it needs seat covers. Would you believe the damn thing has a cassette deck in it …? Don't know if it works or not … the radio does …"

House glared at him. "Are you bitching or bragging? It's a tossup either way. How about a George Jones, singing-through-your-nose tape… or maybe a Willy Nelson? Patsy Cline would be good. She sang through her nose with the best of them!"

"Neither. Both. All three. Ahh …never mind. Want to help me finish off the coffee from this morning?"

"Yeah, why not … Jules should get his drivers' license before he drives that thing …"

"I know. I forgot. I have to check on that …"

"Anything else you forgot to check on?"

"Oh … I don't know … insurance? … but I was thinking …maybe this afternoon we could go back to bed for awhile?" James tweaked his eyebrows suggestively.

"Oh no you don't, Buckaroo! Give the old crippled guy a break! Besides, there's a Cup Race on."

"Oh shit! Where?"

"Fox."

"Ah, wonderful! I _ meant _… which track?"

"Bristol."

"Double wonderful! You watch the race and I'll read the Sunday paper."

"Done!"

They both fell asleep. Dale Jarrett's #88 UPS Ford Fusion won the cup race by the thickness of the paint on his front bumper. The comics section of the paper made a thin tent over Wilson's relaxed upper body.

House snored right through the checkered flag.

Smiling with contented satisfaction, James Wilson watched the most important human being in his life as he slept without a single line of pain marring the grizzled landscape of his face.

He fell asleep himself beneath the centerfold of the Sunday supplement …

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176


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22 "Crutch Ballet"

Roger was in pain.

The gymnasium's stereo was rolling to the rhythm of: _"It's a small world after all, it's a small world after all … it's a small world after all … it's a small, small world …"_

He was in the second hour of therapy and still had another to go. He wished the goddamn stereo would fall off the shelf! He had just come from the hydro pool where the hot water had begun to loosen his muscles, and now he faced his first attempt to regain use of his legs. Jerry Wescavich took his wheelchair and rolled it over by the wall out of the way. "Give it hell, Bozo!" Jerry teased. Roger ignored him. Maria Colby stood by his side on one side of the parallel bars and the two women who ran the rehab gymnasium stood on the other.

He had not wanted to get out of the wheelchair, but they insisted, even as they buckled a pair of lightweight braces onto his emaciated legs. Roger remembered appliances almost like them from his childhood, and he eyed them with a smoldering hatred. Although these were not the heavy, metal torture devices that had chafed his skin and left scars with their passing so many years before, they were close enough to be daunting. These were lightweight. They fit over his sweat pants, and were maneuverable enough that they did not cause his feet to drag any more than they had while he still lived with pain on the dirty streets of Princeton.

The stereo droned on. _"Oohhh … I got a loverly bunch'a cocoanuts … there they are a-standin' in a row … big ones, small ones, some as big as yer 'ead … give 'em a twist, a flick-a-yer wrist, that's what the showman said, 'e said …"_

_Drop dead! _

The women had lowered the leg rests of his chair, and one of them stood close by with a pair of underarm crutches in her hands. Haley and Nicole lifted him easily out of the chair from beneath his arms. His feet, encased in new white sneakers, touched the floor at last. The pain escalated, but they would not allow him to fall back. He took the crutches and fit them under his arms angrily, but the women were still there, steadying him and murmuring encouragement.

If the damned music would just tone down, he might be able to hear them. He stared at them owlishly.

"Turn it down a bit, Jerry!" Nicole called. "Thanks!"

He could feel the blood pounding in his head with the effort, and it wouldn't have taken much for him to pass out dead-away right where he stood. He fought it doggedly and dragged ahead, one foot at a time. He was surprised at the concentration it took just to remember how to do it, and the realization came as a shock that the high-pitched keening he could hear was actually coming from his own throat. The pain he experienced as his tendons stretched toward more normal lengths, was horrendous. Tears rolled down his cheeks in spite of efforts to hold them back. He cursed heartily; a long string of invectives that made everyone in the room stop and stare at him in astonishment. At least now they would know he was not, indeed, some innocent child! He might not look it, but he was an adult in every sense of the word. Best they know it now. They would know it soon enough anyway!

"_Oh give me land, lots'a land under starry skies above … don't fence me in-n-n-n …"_

_Shit! _

Step by tortured step, Haley, Nicole and Maria led him gently until his body was between the parallel bars, and then removed the crutches gradually from beneath his arms and placed them to the side nearby. He was standing; leaning his entire weight on the bars like a limp scarecrow, held up by a stake in the ground, but standing.

Off to the side of the room, Jerry, Jimmy and Jules watched him nervously, feeling his pain, but knowing this was something he must do on his own if he wanted to experience as much of the healing process as he was able. He stole a glance at the three of them, and felt a moment's amusement. Jimmy's hand was covering his mouth, eyes wide and aimed in supplication at the heavy aluminum rafters supporting the ceiling. Jules, beside him, was dancing in mirth, not surprised at all by his partner's long string of colorful cuss words, some of which he hadn't heard since he'd hopped the ship off the island! Jerry Wescavich just stood grinning like a naked ape.

Roger's body was supported on his elbows. His legs felt like they were made of hummingbird feathers, useless under any weight at all, even within the sturdy composition braces. He felt weak and helpless, and he hurt, and he was getting more and more angry. They expected him to walk to the opposite end of the bars, maneuver himself about and return!

_You fuckers! You're hurting me!_

He desperately wanted to scream his outrage at the tops of his lungs. Clumsily he jerked along, both legs moving in a parody of walking, his arms still taking the brunt of his weight, and he could feel his elbows crunching painfully against the damned hard wood.

"_Some-wheeere, over the rainbow … waay up high …"_

Somehow Roger made the turn at the far end of the bars, releasing his grip on one side and smashing his right hand across to the opposite bar before he slipped and went down like a ton of bricks. He snatched his left hand away and swung across, seizing the smooth wood, jamming his knuckles in the process and damn near missing it. He cried out in panic, but his fingers made contact, barely, and he grabbed fast with all his remaining strength. Straightened up and then doubled over, gasping.

Haley and Nicole stood by, bodies prepared to spring, but they let him find his own way and did not interfere. Across from them, Jules and Jimmy and Jerry held their collective breaths. He was halfway to his goal before his strength ran out and he began to cry with frustration, fear and murderous hatred. Hot tears ran down his cheeks and he gave voice to the pain, deep rasping moans that fell from his lips in waves.

"Oh God!" (He didn't believe in God!)

From the other side of the room came a sudden, unexpected peal of mocking laughter, and Roger threw his head into the air, searching for its source.

And the band played on …

Across the gym, the thump-step of a now-familiar, awkward-graceful cadence thundered in Roger's direction. The stereo was beginning another song: this time, waltz tempo.

_  
"Wunderbar … wunderbar … there's a shining star above … like that bright shining star, oh our love is wunderbar …"_

"Turn it up, Jerry!"

Gregory House was hustling, his long legs covering ground quickly as he crossed the floor. His bad leg was taking amazing weight. His body was curled forward only slightly, and his right side graced by his strong right hand on the cane, muscular right arm and powerful shoulder. He was wearing blue jeans, gray Nike Shox and a blue button-down shirt that stretched across his chest as though it had been made for a much smaller man. Sometimes House looked frail, almost fragile. He did not look so today! The shirt was open at the throat, revealing the black tee shirt beneath. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing sinewy forearms, and his usual sports jacket was not present, nor had he cast it off anywhere on his way in.

He stopped in front of Roger Wilson and stood there, towering to his full height, an imposing figure filled with haughty, arrogant disdain. Only James Wilson, ever alert to his friend's theatrics, caught the fractional shift to the left and the weight ease off the right foot. If you didn't know the man and weren't watching intently, the move was all but invisible. James held his breath, sensing disaster in the making. At his side, Jules danced from foot to foot nervously, probably picking up some of Wilson's nervous tension unconsciously.

House stared at the young man sagging and sobbing at the parallel bars. He tipped his head back between his shoulder blades and allowed the kid to see him laugh. The music, booming through the room in sensuous three-quarter time, drowned out the sound of his mockery.

Roger saw the meaning and understood the implications, although his body sagged and wavered with fatigue and pain. He was being made fun of.

House saw the anger rising in the kid; saw the mounting hatred in the dark eyes where there had been only compassion and benevolence before.

_What a piece of work this little shitass is!_

House gathered himself and began to move, never taking his eyes off Roger. "What's the matter, Sweetie? No guts? Can't cut it, huh? Even the shriveled up old cripple has bigger balls than you!" He bellowed. His shouts were easily heard over the music, and as he yelled, the song ended and the gym echoed with residual reverberations of the orchestra's final notes and his booming voice. He moved toward Roger's position at the bars, his limp minimized, left hand fanning the air for balance. Nothing stopped him. He continued past the young man at the parallel bars; passed him as though he was not there.

House continued to the wall just beyond where a rack of crutches hung suspended from individual hangers, easily accessible. His fingers played across the rack like a xylophone, looking at the sizes, and then stopped at a pair marked "6' 3"'. Carefully he pulled them off the hooks and replaced them with his cane.

As the small group of people in the gymnasium stopped to watch, Gregory House deftly positioned the long crutches beneath his arms.

Someone gasped. "What the hell's he doing?" The words echoed in the sudden silence.

"Play that song again, Jerry!" Cautiously, Gregg looked around, unsure from which direction the question had come. "Watch me … and I'll show you what I'm doing! It's a matter of discipline ... something I don't think our young friend here …" indicating Roger Wilson with a crutch pointed in the young man's direction … "has!"

The music began again. _"Wunderbar … wunderbar … what a perfect night for love … Here I am, here you are … why it's truly Wunderbar …"_

Gregg's electric eyes pinned Roger in place with a stare that would have melted icicles. "Get over to the end of the bar and take your crutches back from Nicole. Watch me, and then follow … if you think you can!"

Every eye was upon him as the music swelled. House moved the foot of his bad leg and positioned it so that the heel was resting on the toe of his left shoe. The piping around the edge of the shoe allowed him to maintain the position with little effort. He bent his knee and allowed the leg to flex gently back and forth, side to side. He made it look easy. Then he began to sway in time with the music. Crutch-to-crutch like an ocean wave. Deftly, he shifted the right crutch to a point almost perpendicular to his right shoulder, and followed through with a graceful sweep of his body, making it look as though he were a trapeze artist beginning an ascent to the apex of the Big Top.

"_Like a bright, shining star … why it's truly Wunderbar…" _

He followed through immediately with the crutch on the left side, swinging it around behind him and jabbing it with precision onto the floor, just at the point of his left heel, swung his body in the opposite direction like a ballroom dancer and followed through in perfect cadence, easing his weight carefully, gauging his balance like a high wire walker. The crippled right leg swung across in a graceful arc, its heel still guided by the toe of the left shoe, not too far, not too hard, in a curve that presented the illusion of a combination of ballet, and a modern dance pirouette.

"… _Wunderbar … wunderbar…"_ The music soared, and the man performing the unique dance routine across the floor held the swelling numbers of his audience hushed, rapt and spellbound. But he was alone in his own world, doing nothing more than proving a point. He acknowledged nothing, no one else.

House glanced to his left, saw Roger Wilson at the end of the parallel bars, struggling, lurching away from the supports, reclaiming the crutches clumsily from Nicole's hands. As the music progressed and rounded into the second strain, House glanced across again and caught Roger's crude attempts to sway with the music as it swelled ever outward, his eyes downcast, face tensed in concentration. Gregg smirked to himself, satisfied with the anger he had generated, and turned his attention back to concentrate on his own movements. His leg was already aching, but the song would soon be over.

The bridge of the melody swelled with full orchestra and a whirlwind of strings and brass at counterpoint. House paused for a moment, then began to sway again, in the opposite direction; left crutch to the perpendicular, right one planted firmly behind, and swung around again. Both crutches came off the floor at once as he spun gracefully on his sound left foot, coming about to catch himself at the opposition point on both crutches, and then pushed off again immediately, in time with the rhythm. He ended with a graceful swing upward, like a water bird rising into the air, reversing its course with a swoop and a dive to catch the refrain when the bridge ended and the main melody overrode the string section for the final crescendo.

Woodwinds picked up the last strains and the song ended in a thunder of tympani and brass. House planted himself like a tripod for the final chord, breathing heavily, yet triumphant. He lifted the right crutch and swept it across his middle, bowing to the large crowd of frozen co-workers who had gathered in the doorway and spilled over into the gym.

The silence at the end of the song was deafening. He looked up, startled, suddenly noticing the swell of enraptured faces. He acknowledged them stiffly, nearly losing his balance when an instant of dizziness set in. He had to hop-step on the good leg to protect the escalating pain in the right one as he leaned hard on the crutches to hitch across the floor and retrieve his cane.

The applause, when it came, when the crowd finally snapped out of its thrall, was thunderous. And he darted his eyes warily about, as though it had scared him silly. He had only been proving a point!

By the bars, Roger stood slumped but still upright; eyes wide with awe and his sweat suit hanging off him, making him look like a skinny fireplug with outriggers. House could feel the kid's stare burning into his back, and everyone else's for that matter. He needed to get out of there!

Roger was subdued when House put the crutches back and grabbed his cane to leave. "Thanks, Gregg," the kid said softly at last. "I get it!"

Jules and James and Jerry and a few others were headed his way, but he had to sit down and take a Vicodin … in that order. But not here! He did not need recognition or congratulation; he had achieved the desired goal, and that had been his aim. He ignored them all and hurried back toward the corridor before someone noticed that he'd done a number on himself.

Cuddy and the ducklings were lingering outside the doorway. They were impressed, and chattering and wanting to tell him that they'd been stunned by his performance … and on crutches yet, for God's sake! There were wisecracks about Broadway and TV and the Tonight Show … blah blah blah …

He made no attempt to tell them that if they'd had to spend as much time in their lives walking with crutches as he'd had in _his_ lifetime, they'd be crutch-ballet dancers too! He hurried on past them with only a few muttered words of acknowledgment, and headed for his office.

House sulked in solitary silence until quitting time, then clambered aboard the yellow suicide machine and went home.

The ride felt longer than usual. His leg hurt to the point of teeth-grinding, and it was colder outside than a witch's tit!

Somewhere in an obscure corner of his mind he wondered whether Wilson had managed to talk Cuddy into discharging Roger.

Ah yes … Wilson … Jules … Roger …

_Shit!_

_xxxxxxxxxx_

182


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23 "Wilson Speaks"

It's Thursday night already!

My God, where has the week gone? I'm so tired I don't know what to do. I lost two long-time patients this week … two people I'd come to admire … within twelve hours of each other. I hate standing by and knowing there is nothing I can do except _be_ there to lend condolences.

I didn't even get to do that with the second one!

Anna Catherine Golden made it all the way to her seventy-second year and had great hopes of seeing her granddaughter graduate from high school. Annie had been named for her, she'd told me, and they were great friends. Anna had a raucous sense of humor and it stayed with her to the very end. Her daughter Sarah, forty-three, was much more straight-laced. The rest of the large family surrounded Anna on her deathbed and took turns staying with her, talking to her in low tones and in general, giving her their love and respect until the moment she died about ten on Tuesday night. I knew the end was coming, and had stayed in my office late with the music turned low, trying to console myself and concentrate on some charting, knowing she would not last until morning. But it was still difficult when the family came to me later, offering their thanks for helping to prolong her life for as long as possible.

Young Trevor Branlin, on the other hand, was fifteen. He was a handsome blue-eyed blonde; tennis player, swimmer, golfer, bowler, long distance runner. His father had died in a work-related accident three years ago, and his mother was a human resources manager. She was a feisty lady, and she and Trev had a great relationship. Brandelyn had raised him well. He had a head full of smart-ass attitude, a steel-trap mind, and did not suffer fools gladly. He had leukemia, but kept going into remission after remission, and I … and his mother …were beginning to think we were gaining the upper hand.

He was back for further tests, and trying to make the best of another round of tubes and needles. He loved picking on me. He called me "Dr. Dork" and "The Galloping Geek" (among other things much less kind) with monotonous regularity, just to rag me whenever he'd see me roll my eyes in exasperation over something else he'd said to get my goat.

One day I told him I suspected he'd been vaccinated with a phonograph needle. Brandy laughed with delight, but Trevor frowned and squinted up at me, looking enough like a young Gregory House that it set me back on my heels. Then he asked me: "Doc, what the heck is a phonograph needle?" Made me feel like a doddering old-timer! Turned out he was playing me for a sucker … again … but as usual, it had worked.

Two days after that, Trevor was gone. When I came to work yesterday morning, his bed was empty and made up fresh, and one of the nurses from night shift said he'd died at 3:30 a.m. I was still in mourning for Anna … and now Trevor. I would miss his youthful sarcasm and teen-age silliness. I would even miss being called "Dr. Dork".

This morning when I went to work, I still felt a little down. Roger and Jules had some kind of argument last night, and were both sullen and uncommunicative at breakfast. I was relieved that today wasn't one of Rodge's therapy days, and I wouldn't have to listen to a reproachful silence in the car all the way to work. The old Dodge Shadow was still parked in the driveway, waiting until Jules could get a driver's permit and then take his test. (I hadn't thought about that when I bought the car. It had taken House to remind me!)

Roger was doing well. He was already out of the wheelchair, mostly, and learning to use the crutches. His therapy was difficult. He was still in considerable pain, and in the latter part of a day he would still collapse into the wheelchair and let Jules or me push him around the house. We all wished it would hurry and warm up outside so everyone could get outdoors on a regular basis and just … literally … blow some of the stink off!

Cuddy agreed to discharge Roger, and I brought him and Jules home Monday evening after work. They've been here ever since. They really took a liking to the den-cum-bedroom, and couldn't stop thanking me for the opportunity to actually have a place to live after years in shelters and on the streets. Both of them even began to make noises about looking for jobs. I told them to give themselves time and recuperate first. I got no argument on that.

That night Roger made a phone call to Trenton. Spoke to Mom and Dad on the phone. At first they had no idea who it was. Roger's voice had changed; deepened in the ten years he'd been gone.

When he finally said: "It's Philip, Mom. Don't you know me?" His voice was so plaintive I wanted to cry. Jules just sat there beside him, holding his hand. The silence on the other end of the phone was like a blank space in the middle of a symphony when the laser isn't hitting the CD: then a piercing telephone-filtered scream that I could have heard even if I'd been all the way out in the kitchen. After that we were all crying … both ends of the line. It was almost embarrassing for all of us. But what else would we have done?

So … they're coming here this weekend: sometime tomorrow night. Dad and Mom, Tommy and Suzanne. Each couple can have one of the bedrooms upstairs, although I'm going to have to buy and take delivery on another bed between now and then. The guest room is a little empty. It's going to be interesting. I'll probably be sleeping on the old rollaway bed in the basement laundry room. Certainly should be warm enough down there! Should also be interesting falling asleep with the furnace going on and off all night. Oh well …

I haven't seen House all week … except for a short time late Monday … and here and there in the halls when he was working on something or other …when I went over to talk to him about the cool thing he did for Roger … and yes, I know _exactly_ what he did and why he did it, and there's no way I can ever thank him without him blowing me off , like it was some other guy who did that neat thing for his best friend's brother … but that's the way it is when you're friends (or whatever-the-hell I am) with Gregg House.

Anyway, I went to his office to let him know how I felt, and that Cuddy was discharging Roger, and the boys were leaving with me. And I wanted to let him know Claire and Luther and Tom and Suzanne were visiting for the weekend.

But that's not what happened.

Gregg didn't have much to say. When I walked into his office, he was seated at his desk with his leg stretched out in front of him. Probably still sore from earlier. He had a Vicodin in his palm, ready to take it dry. He threw back his head and did so as I approached the desk, then he shifted his gaze slowly to meet my eyes, and seemed to search my face with a sadness that roiled in my belly. I was struck dumb. For once, the look in his incredible eyes was unreadable, but his thin face seemed to elongate even more than it normally did, and his natural pallor took on a bleakness that made me wonder if he was ill. His mouth worked the pill for a few moments before he swallowed. I felt suddenly empty … the same way House looked. I started to say something.

All he said to me was: "Take it easy, Wilson, but let it alone. If you need me, I'll be around …"

That seemed to be all there was. He made himself busy with a stack of papers that I knew he'd been shuffling around on his desk for weeks. I'd been dismissed. So I gathered myself, turned in the direction of the door. I knew he did not look up. I wanted to say, "I love you" or "Take care" or even, "Let's go get a beer!" … but none of those things seemed appropriate.

Other than glimpses in the hallway, I have not seen him since … or talked to him. I've wondered where his mind has been. Sometimes I also wonder where the hell _mine_ is!

Now it's Thursday night. I came home to find that Roger and Jules had solved their difficulties, whatever they were, and were sitting close together on the couch in the living room, watching a rerun of _Star Gate_ and laughing about something Jack O'Neill had just said to Daniel Jackson.

The house smelled of something cooking when I came in the back door, and Jules told me he had "made-a-batch-of-bar-b-que-and-there-was-lots-of-it-left-and-it-was- probably-still-hot." I nodded my thanks and returned to the kitchen to make a sandwich, pour a glass of milk and call one of the local fast-delivery discount furniture outfits around Princeton.

"Joe's Discount Furniture – 75 Off ALL THE TIME!"

That's what it said in the Yellow Pages. It was in Plainsboro, but it wasn't that far away, and the price seemed right. "Full-Bed-Size – Box spring, mattress and frame. ONLY $199.95." I decided it must be made of cardboard and stuffed with empty birds' nests … but it was a temporary fix. So I punched in the number …

"Ya want us to deliver it tonight?" The guy on the phone asked.

I was taken aback. "Unhhh … yeah. Can you?"

"Yup," he said. "We never close. Gimmie directions to your place …"

I did, and turned on the front porch light, and they delivered it at 10:00 p.m. Carried it right in the front door and upstairs to the guest room and even set it up. It cost me $255.00 (including delivery charges.)

I had always thought that any price that had the word _"Only"_ in front of it was a total rip-off. Tonight I confirmed the theory! (Just like anything labeled: _"Absolutely Free!" _never is!) And yes, I think it's made of cardboard. At least parts of it! I was almost afraid to press too hard on the mattress, for fear part of the birds' nests might poke through.

I threw on a thick mattress pad, tucked in the sheets and a blanket, covered the whole works with a nice bedspread, flicked off the light and came back downstairs.

I asked Rodge and Jules (he told me to call him 'Julie', but I balked at that for obvious reasons) if they'd like another bar-b-que. They said 'yes' and we all convened in the kitchen, one sandwich each, and the pan was scraped clean. We finished the gallon of milk. The boys were already dressed for bed.

I left them and came back upstairs, stepped into a shower as hot as I could possibly stand it, and now I'm between the sheets and it's midnight.

My last thoughts before my eyes finally go closed, is a moment's love and concern for Gregg House.

Dear, beautiful, fucked-up House.

… and old dumb fucked-up me …

xxxxxxxx

185


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24 "Whispers"

Cuddy:

Something is definitely "off". It reminds me of those first few terrible months after House's surgery, from the time Stacy took over his power of attorney and authorized the "middle ground" in order to save his life. Even then they'd almost lost him. When he came out of the anesthetic and realized what had been done to him, he reacted like a wild man. It was frightening and traumatic for all of us and we began to think there would be no end to the ranting and raving when he first discovered his right leg would be less than perfect for the rest of his life.

He drove Stacy away from him with blame and accusations, stormy and hateful yelling followed by bitter, angry silences that finally got the better of her and she left him for good in order to save her own sanity … and perhaps his as well. And then he clammed up; became sullen and smoldering and forbidding. Set his rehab back weeks because he would not be caught dead in a wheelchair or on crutches. He had to relent from that asinine declaration soon afterward, because there was no other way he was able to get around, other than allowing Bill Travis to carry him. If it hadn't been for Wilson finally calling him a coward and standing up to his bitter refusal to cooperate, he might still be in a damn wheelchair; might never have gotten back on his feet to the extent that he has.

And now it seems as though he's back to that same attitude again. He's too quiet. Sullen and introspective. I haven't seen him anywhere near Wilson for … I don't know how long … and it's got me a little worried. He hangs out in the clinic without being ordered there or threatened with forced time off. He hides out with the snifflers and the whiners and complainers and the sprained ankles. If he's not there, then he's holed up in his office and completely ignores everyone who tries to approach him. I get the feeling that he's about to explode, but he won't let me near him. Not like he used to when we were a lot younger …

His friend James is worried, his fellows are worried, and I don't know whether to wait him out or go hit him over the head with something hard. At least that might get his attention. I think it might have something to do with Roger Wilson, but I'm not sure. I have no right to interfere, because for the first time in years … he is _doing his job!_

Wilson:

I've been so busy with Roger and Jules and a heavier-than-normal case load lately that I'm not even sure if my head's on straight.

Mom and Dad and Tom and Suzanne were here last weekend, and I'm sorry to say it didn't go very well. I'd completely forgotten that I was the only one who called him "Roger", so it was a little awkward when they all called him "Philip". I never fully realized before that our parents are such homophobes. The visit was fine at first, and we were all a little weepy at the reunion, and they were so kind and gentle with "Philip", not wanting to hurt him when they hugged him and showed affection and happiness at seeing him again. He wore blue jeans and a good shirt for the first time, and his hair was trimmed and combed back a little. He had new glasses, and his emaciation was not so obvious. The odd shape of his legs was not an issue. He stayed in the wheelchair most of the weekend, and no one had to watch him struggle to walk.

However, when they were introduced to Jules and informed what they were to each other, you could suddenly feel all the oxygen being sucked out of the air. My gentle sweet mother clasped her hands over her mouth and looked like she was about to throw up when Philip told her Jules was his lover. And Dad … well … Dad turned three shades of purple, and I could sense thunderclouds rolling in and forming above his head. The word "homosexual" was never uttered in our house while I was growing up, and I hadn't really thought about it. But now I understood why. It was _not_ a decision that a well-bred Jewish boy made for his life! (As if homosexuality is a conscious choice! Where in hell did they get that idea? Was _that_ why Roger had left and stayed away so long?) Tom was a different story though, thank God. He couldn't have cared less who Philip chose to love … he was just so damned glad to see him again after all this time. If it hadn't been for Tom, they might have picked up and left again right then! Suzanne didn't say a word one way or the other, but her sense of humor quickly disappeared after Jules was introduced. And even now, I can't help wondering what they will think if House and I ever …

But I must hold that thought for another time.

I can't help but wonder where all that long-time "Wilson compassion" got to all of a sudden! Not so good when actually put to the test!

The rest of the weekend they ignored Jules as though he wasn't there, except for Tom and me. It got uncomfortable sometimes, but there was nothing we could do about it. Tom and I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Jules in tow, sitting around the table, talking, telling stories about Philip (Roger) when he was a kid, and drinking a lot of beer and eating a lot of junk food.

By the time the family left on Sunday afternoon, I was actually looking forward to going back to work.

I've been wanting to talk to House; see him, breathe the essence of him and maybe gauge him against everything Cuddy said to me later that day, but between running Rodge back and forth to rehab, my full schedule of oncology appointments, and looking after the boys and the house, I feel myself being run ragged, and wondering if I'm biting off more than I can chew.

The application for Jules' driver's permit came in the mail, and he's preparing to take his exam. At least that will take some of the load off, and the Shadow will finally get moved away from where it was growing roots in the driveway.

Dr. Cuddy stopped by my office while I was finishing up an appointment. All I needed that afternoon was another round of bad news. She wanted to know: "Had I noticed any difference in the way House was acting lately?" (Feel like listening to me complain for an hour?)

Well, no, actually. I hadn't seen hide or hair of Gregg since the day of his "ballet on crutches", except for maybe the back of his head when he'd been going in the opposite direction in the corridor, or when I heard his voice echo through my office wall from some heated discussion he was having with the ducklings. One day I saw him disappear into one of the clinic exam rooms and close the door behind him. I didn't think much of it, knowing how many times I've caught him in there hiding from people in general and Cuddy in particular. If there was some kind of difference I was supposed to notice, like Cuddy said, then that was probably part of what she meant. Truth to tell, Gregg and I hadn't exchanged more than ten words in over a week. Once in awhile our work has to take precedence over our friendship. I missed him more than I could ever say, but he was aware of all the stuff happening in my life, and other than a few cautionary words at the onset, he'd not made a fuss about it.

Cuddy told me he's been hiding from everyone and acting like: "a bear with a sore ass at fly time …" (her words, I swear!), and she wondered if I had any ideas.

Hell no! Of course not! House is House.

After that, I did some serious thinking about everything Cuddy had said, and then dispatched Billy Travis and Mark Fetterolf to keep an eye on him for me. I couldn't do it myself because I just didn't have the time, and he'd know right away what was going on if I stuck my nose in where it wasn't wanted. I didn't need a fight with him when I hadn't even seen him. After about a day, they both came back and told me that he was indeed holing himself up in his office a great majority of the time, and his lameness looked to be increasing, but he was … "still the same miserable, sarcastic asshole he's always been." That was Mark's assessment. Billy's was a little less condemning, but basically the same.

I don't know why their words gave me cold shivers, but they did.

I really need to see House and talk to him. I need to look at him and ascertain for myself whether he might be in some kind of self-induced difficulty. I need to touch him, feel his shaggy heat beneath my own hand and take his psychological temperature, so to speak. Or something like that. I need to make time and make contact! I miss him like crazy, and I wonder if all this is because he has a bug up his ass about Rodge and Jules … wouldn't put it past him. But the increased lameness? Is something else going on with his leg? He has never looked particularly fragile to me, but within normal health guidelines and his own case history, I know he is from time to time. And that's mostly because he won't take care of himself, and he has this damned "fuck-you" attitude. At those times, when he needs help the most, he won't let anybody, much less me … help him.

And that sucks!

House:

Drag-ass tired!

I worked more this week than I have in years, and I hurt all over.

There's enough garbage churning around inside my head to float the Queen Mary, and all of it's crap! I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Trouble with that is … the _first_ shoe hasn't dropped yet.

But it will!

I miss the hell out of Wilson, but I know he's up to his eyeballs in hospital stuff, and up to his ass with those two fools he's letting shack up at his place. They're both going to dick him around until they drag him through the muck and make him sorry he ever laid eyes on them.

How do I know? I don't. But I do! There's a fucking _Tinkerbell_ sitting on my shoulder who keeps screaming, _"Watch out, Wilson!"_

I can't warn him. Not any more than I already have. It would sound like sour grapes, and would only chase him away from me and make things more difficult. Blood being thicker than water and all that! Just genealogical bull crap that best friends should stay the-hell out of. Life is full of little stumbling blocks like that, dammit!

I hate the words: "I don't know" with a purple passion. The phrase screams lack-of-effort … procrastination … and not giving a shit! It means you haven't done your homework … and you haven't delved deep enough into the problem … or your biological multi-dimensional thinking machine is defective … for whatever reason. But that damned premonition … so strong inside my head … has begun to turn me into some stupid, blithering moron who suffers from all of the above!

"George and Gracie" are up to something, and it really _pisses me off! _Because _I don't know!_ There's a part of the puzzle that I'm missing, and I can't tell anyone. And I wouldn't, even if I could! This one is _mine_ to figure out.

The Vicodin scrip I got from Wilson the end of last week is almost gone. "Taking more now and enjoying it less …" I'm paraphrasing something I remember from an old cigarette commercial my old man used to quote way back when I was an "Army Brat". But it fits.

The leg has been a bitch. My knee is still tender and sore from the night I fell asleep with my leg propped on the bookcase, and it really gets to me that something as innocent as that can screw me up so bad! I haven't told anyone. It's none of their damn business. Don't need anybody fussing over me. Wish I'd brought Wilson's moist heat pad home with me. It might help. I'm just too lazy … and too damn sore … to try to go out and get one of my own.

I worked the clinic all week, and at least it kept people out of my face while I did some serious thinking … not that it got me anywhere. Like I said, I still don't know, and I'm not any closer to finding out. George and Gracie are at his place now, and away from anywhere I can keep a close eye on them.

I miss Wilson. I said that before, didn't I? I miss the sight of him and the scent of him and the sound of his voice. I miss stealing parts of his lunch off his plate, and blowing cigar smoke in his face just to get that snooty reaction. But I have to go after him soon and get him to write me another scrip. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest! I have to talk to him about it, and that's going to raise his eyebrows and get him asking dumb questions. Yeah, my leg hurts, and I _need_ them! Can't let it go all weekend, or I'm fucked.

Even now, the leg is making me shaky, and I can't sit still. Pounding around on the piano hasn't done it. Channel surfing around all the crap that's on TV hasn't done it. The pain is all the way into my ass cheek, making me scrooch around with every other heartbeat. It's almost as bad as it was after Stacy finally left the last time. There's five pills left, and if it gets any worse than it is now, I'll run out about noon tomorrow. I know part of it is tension … and I'm half afraid to dwell on what the rest might be …

At least it's not in my head, like Wilson and Cuddy tried to tell me it was before! Stacy has been gone too long for that to have any bearing. The pain is real and it's making me nuts. _Not_ part of my imagination!

C'mere, bottle! Come to Papa! Hydrocodone to soothe the savage beast! Just four left now. Need to shower and get the hell to bed!

Good luck with that!

Roger:

I am such a coward! I have been a coward all my life, and it makes me ashamed. I have done things in my life that would make a Rabbi blush, but yet I could not stand up against my parents' revulsion when they found out that the love of my life is another man. I have committed criminal acts that would land me in jail if I were ever caught, but still I sat and allowed them to embarrass me. They used to be kinder, more generous people. What the hell happened?

Shame on me! I allowed them to rule me with their homophobia until Julie left the room with Tom and Jimmy, when I wanted him at my side. I wanted them to get to know him for who he is, and strike a blow at their stupid prejudice. But no! I caved like the coward I am, and he was exiled to the kitchen like a galley slave.

So I sat still for the hugs and the kisses and the tears and the exclamations of everlasting love, and answered to a name I don't even know anymore …and pretended to be the good little cripple (like Gregg jokes around about, but which I know hurts him very deeply).

Then I listened to the admonitions about how thoughtless of me to go away and break all contact with my family for ten long years, and leaving them not knowing whether I was dead or alive … and their own agendas began to sneak in there about how they had worried and prayed and suffered … blah blah blah blah blah … until my ears were hammered deaf with it.

But guess what, folks … if you want me, you have to take Julie too. Not much chance of that, huh? I was thinking maybe Julie and I could move in with you guys awhile 'til I can get on my feet again… cut Jimmy some slack so he and Gregg can kind of figure out where they're going with their own relationship.

But that would never work. Just think, folks … you not only have one little queer in the family … you have two! Now, aint that a kick in the 'nads?

If they only knew!

Maria:

I'm confused. On one hand, he is so sweet. He has the eyes of a wounded fawn, and his voice is even softer and more meticulously modulated than his older brother. He is polite and unendingly gentle. Even when his legs hurt him the most, he does not complain. I know he's in pain, and even with the hydrotherapy and his meds, he suffers from the aftereffects of the polio he had as a child. He is weak, nearly helpless; and walking, even with the crutches he's only just begun to use, causes him no end of grief. Every time he uses them, he hurts for hours afterward.

On the other hand, there is a surprising hardness, and a cruelty in him that he works very hard at hiding from the world. He doesn't know I know, but I heard him threaten one of the men who share the room. The two guys in the other beds are older; manual laborers who fell on hard times and ended up on the ward. Neither of them is very tolerant toward gays, and one of them voiced it to Roger in no uncertain terms.

I was outside in the corridor, getting their meds ready one night, and I heard Roger tell them he might look helpless, but he was trained in the martial arts and if they didn't mind their own business, they might wake up one morning to find both of their eyes rolled over into the same socket. Besides, there was this big black dude he could talk to who would stomp on their scrotums and have them singing soprano the rest of their lives. The voice Roger used was not soft or gentle or carefully modulated. I was very startled by his tone.

Was he threatening them with Billy Travis? If so, he'd chosen the wrong "black dude"!

When I went in to give them the meds, all was quiet and serene. Roger was in his wheelchair and Julie was perched on his bed right next to him. They were smiling at each other while Pook and Joe were busy looking for things of interest on the ceiling, the walls and the floor.

When I gave Roger his meds, he smiled up at me with dark, glittering eyes, then quickly caught himself and toned it down to his usual sweet levels. I winked at him, but didn't let on that there was anything different between us. I want to tell James, but I'm not sure how to go about it. He would probably think I was hallucinating.

After a few hours, I began to believe I'd been seeing and hearing things also. _Jesus!_

Maybe I should talk to Gregory House … but he would probably think I was out of my mind.

Billy:

Jeez … do I _look_ like "Mother Confessor"? All of a sudden I got people pouring out their troubles to me like I have some kind of psychological degree, or a doctorate of divinity, or a magic wand. Sorry, folks, but I don't think I'm hiding any of the answers you're looking for. It takes all my grey matter just to keep up with the stuff I'm responsible for on a daily basis without taking on anything more.

Man! … there's all kinds of crap jumbled up inside my head … and I'm not sure if I'm making any sense at all. Mostly, I don't understand what it is about me that makes people run to me for advice … or my opinions about stuff that bothers them. Most of these people are smarter, wiser, more experienced and a hell of a lot better educated than me. But a lot of times I open up the door of my heart and find a whole crowd of "the confused" on my doorstep. I wish I knew why that was, but I have no clue.

Sometimes, the more I try to sort through it, the worse it gets. I owe Jimmy Wilson and Gregg House a lot more than I can ever repay, but here I sit, dumb old me, listening to them bare their souls. Jimmy, I can understand. Jimmy lays himself open like a book. There's not an ounce of deceit in his whole body … except maybe around Gregg … and most of that's just in fun.

On the other hand, Gregg House is one of the most closed-off of anyone I've ever met. He guards every aspect of his personality from people as though it's all a military secret, and to let anyone inside would be a felony punishable by death. Some of it I can understand, I think. He's a man of mental and physical action … or he used to be when I first knew him. Then "the leg" happened, and overnight he became one of those people who were entitled to use a handicapped parking space … and my God! How he hated even the thought of that! His whole life did an about-face and his body was no longer able to do the things he expected it to do. He found himself sitting on the sidelines watching while everyone around him got to do the cool stuff.

Yet, he's told me things that I don't think he's ever said to anyone else … not even Jimmy Wilson … and I know he loves Jimmy more than life. I feel undeserving of his trust, but honored to have it. And when he tells me things that bug him, I feel all humble and mushy inside. And I wonder to myself … why me? What the hell _is_ it?

The other morning I went downstairs again, after my shift, to shoot the breeze with Nance and Maria. I was a little later than usual because two of my people stopped me to ask permission to trade shifts. So I said "sure", and went back to make the notations on the schedule. When I got down to the second floor, Maria Colby had just come back from giving out meds. She was upset about something she heard Roger say to Pook Andrews and Joe Rezicci for giving him and Jules a hard time about being gay. Evidently, Roger told those two boys that he was trained in kung fu or something, and would break their arms and legs if they didn't cut it out. Then she said Roger threatened to sic _me_ on them! That struck me as funny, and I told her so, but it pissed her off and she accused me of not believing her.

Uh oh! By that time, Nancy had come over and backed Maria up … said Maria was as surprised by hearing Roger threaten anyone as I was. And I know from experience that you don't get Maria pissed off at you unless you want her pissed off _forever! _So I told them I'd see what I could find out … but they shouldn't forget that Rodge and Julie were both going to be gone pretty soon … moving out on Ridge Road to Jimmy's place. So, anyhow, they were already gone before I could ask around and see what was up. I was a little too late.

The other night I talked to The Boss … you know … Gregg. (He's always thought it's honkin' hilarious that I called him that sometimes, but he just rolls his eyes and gives me that "whatever" scrunched look and lets it go.) Anyhow, it seems that he's had reservations about those boys (he calls 'em 'George and Gracie') since the git-go. He's worried about Jimmy, and Jimmy's involvement in the whole thing, what with him volunteering to take both of them in and provide for them until Roger is on his feet … or a reasonable facsimile thereof …

There's speculation going around that Gregg is having extra problems with his leg … and Jimmy wanted me to prowl around and find out for him if it was true. (Like I said, I must look like "Mother Confessor" …)

Well, here's the scoop on that: It's none of my business, but I really wish those two guys would just quit their fiddle-fuckin' around and admit their real feelings. Damn it, nobody who works in this hospital is blind! They've been doing a chicken dance around each other for years, and dammit, everybody sees what's going on but _them!_

Gregg wants me to check on Jimmy; Jimmy wants me to check on Gregg … and here I am in the middle, trying to juggle them back and forth while still trying to keep my nose out of the drama.

And yeah … Gregg told me he hurt his knee one night by sleeping in the wrong position, and then hurt it again when he did something or other he calls the "crutch ballet" … what the hell is that? …and it was still giving him problems. That sucks! Hurting yourself even while you're sleeping _really blows chunks! _ And then to screw it up again while showing off for that little _schmuck_ in the gym … that was nothin' but dumb!

I knew there was nothing I could do for him, and he's been taking it easy and babying it a little. He said he's been hiding in the clinic where he can push himself around on the wheeled stools and stay off it as much as possible. He said Cuddy has been giving him looks as though she thinks he's lost his mind … and I know he gets off on messing with Cuddy's head. But when I laughed my ass off about him doing clinic duty on purpose when I know how much he hates it, he got huffy with me. Which only made me laugh more! Finally, he gave me one of his scrunched-up, wrinkled-nose-expressions that makes him look like Ichabod Crane on crack … and we both got a good laugh out of it.

Well, at least now I can tell Jimmy about Gregg's knee problems, and reassure him that Gregg's also pretty much okay … or he will be. At least, I think so. Maybe. Who-the-hell knows? I'm not sure, but I don't think I'm breaking Gregg's confidence if I spill to Jimmy … 'cause Jimmy will send him over to Norm Lyons … and the knee needs to be tended before something worse happens … oh man …

Gregg said he believes what Maria Colby heard in the corridor that morning is valid, and she wasn't 'hearing' things, and he'll back her up on it, at least until somebody proves different. He still thinks George and Gracie are up to no good, and he's worried that Jimmy is riding for a fall.

Only thing is, we'll never know for sure unless one of the little farts makes a mistake and proves without a doubt what Gregg thought about them all along. So I guess we wait!

That still doesn't clean up the crap that floats around in my head … but at least now I can think about it a little more clearly, right?

_Shit!_

Jules:

Nice house. Nice neighborhood. Nice arrangement.

Roger's doctor-brother is a pushover though. If we decided to shit on the floor, he would clean it up and never say a word. Too bad! He begs to be taken advantage of. Other than that, I find him to be pleasant and agreeable and a nice man. He is almost as pretty as Roger! (Ha ha …)

Their family is a bunch of assholes. Can't stand them! Sanctimonious bastards, all of them … except maybe Tommy … and he was only dicking around with me over the weekend to keep peace between Jimmy and their parents.

That old schlock and his ugly, prunified wife were scandalized that Rodge would _dare _choose another man as his life's partner! Like it was any of their business to judge him for his choices as an adult! I wonder what they would think if they knew that James is also in love with another man! They'd probably have a heart attack. If so, I would like to watch.

I've been studying to take my drivers' test. The state of New Jersey is difficult when compared to the simple road test in Cheyenne. Of course, that was a long time ago. It is hard to believe it has been that long since I drove a car. We had a big Mercury station wagon out there. This little car that James bought is only half as big. It looks good and runs good for such an old car. James took me out twice in it, and my driving skills have not left me. I guess it is like swimming and riding a bicycle. They say you never forget, no matter how long you have been away from it. I have found that it is probably true.

When I have my license again, I will be the one to transport Roger back and forth from the hospital for his hydrotherapy and physical therapy classes. He has been very depressed from the pain and his inability to walk well on the crutches, and he said the medications they were giving him were not working. I think some of it was the fear of enduring the pain while forcing his poor legs to move again until he could regain some of his mobility. His legs really hurt him badly when we were still on the streets, and sometimes he would cry at night and all I could do was stay with him and rub his legs and hold him. The aspirin we stole never helped him that much, but our choices were limited then.

Everything seems better now. I think some of it came from the day Gregory House walked into the gym and humiliated him in front of all those people, and he did not want to lose face by being a coward and sitting there crying while House did that thing he did on the crutches. Even I was taken back by Gregg's grace and his ability to make "walking with two sticks" look so effortless. It made me think that he must have had to walk with crutches himself for a really long time while his leg healed as far as it could. I stood beside Jimmy and both our mouths were dropped open as we watched, and when Rodge began to move away from the bars and take his crutches and try to sway to the tune of _Wunderbar_ … I found myself in tears … and so did Jimmy beside me, although it was for different reasons. It was because the ones we both loved were brave … and angry.

I wonder if Roger and I will ever be able to return to that foolish thing we used to do … just for kicks …

Stop it!

Wilson:

Gregg came into my office today while I was doing a case workup and trying to grab a few bites of lunch. I was surprised to see him, but not _really_ surprised when he limped (really limped!) up to my desk, looked over my chicken salad sandwich, apple, potato chips and Little Debbie cupcakes, and then stole half the sandwich and a couple of chips. He went over and sat down on the old couch, munched on the food and just sat there. I knew something was on his mind, but wasn't sure what.

I asked him how he was doing … trying to be nonchalant about it and evidently failing … because he gave me "that" look.

"Just peachy," he said.

"What's up?" I said. I put the case file aside and concentrated on him. He was a little pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes, which stood out like signal flags on his long face.

"Leg." He said it angrily, and under his breath, and I knew right away he hated the fact that he'd _had_ to say it.

Even such a reluctant admission from him told me exactly why he was there. "Still bothering you from the night you went to sleep …?"

"Yeah … and the shit I pulled in the gym a couple days later …"

Billy Travis had warned me that might be part of it. "That why you've been hiding in the clinic?"

"Yeah, partly."

"Why else?"

"Just trying to keep Cuddy off my ass … and keep the kids off my ass …"

"Is that working?"

"Mostly."

"And you came in here because … ?"

"You know why."

"Yeah, I think so, but I want to hear you say it."

"Damn it, Wilson!"

"Say it!"

"I need you to write me a new scrip." His eyes were all over the place.

"Okay …" (why fight it?)

"What?"

"I said 'okay'." I opened the middle drawer of my desk and fished around for my prescription pad. I wrote him a prescription that took ten seconds.

He popped the last chip into his mouth and pushed up from the couch. Took the scrip and made to leave.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Later."

"Yeah …"

And he was gone. That was two hours ago. I haven't seen him since. I think he might have gone home.

Damn him! He was hurting. A lot. A lot more than just the leg …

House:

Know what it's like when you feel so low you have to reach up to touch bottom? I felt like that in Wilson's office today.

Mainly because he didn't give me a hard time about asking for another refill so soon after the last one!

My Vicodin ran out at eleven o'clock, and by noon I needed more. My knee is driving me nuts, and if it wasn't so hot and swollen, even I might begin to think it was actually psychosomatic. It's not.

I went straight to the pharmacy and filled the scrip, then signed out. I sneaked out of there like a kid who didn't finish his term paper, called a taxi from my cell and came home. My bike still sits in the hospital's underground garage because I can't bend my knee enough to get it over the saddle.

So here I sit with my damn leg propped up under about ten pounds of ice, still sore as hell, wondering if whatever is wrong is serious enough to go back in there and have myself admitted.

Right now it's tamed down enough that if I don't move it, it's okay. But I dread the next time I have to get up to go to the head. When I try to put weight on it, I feel like I'm going to pass out. I was even desperate enough to get out my old wooden rehab crutches and lean them here against the nightstand by the bed.

If it didn't hurt so damn much, I would laugh at the irony. Last week I went to the gym and pissed around there … doing a stupid dance-on-crutches … just to get Roger Wilson off his ass and get him moving. Now here I am … fantasy-becomes-reality …in the same fix he is. It hurts so bad it brings tears to my eyes. Paybacks are hell!

Thank God it's the weekend again, and I have two days to screw around with it and try to get it back to flexible …

Sometimes I feel like I'm ninety-five years old.

I wish Wilson were here. It would be so good just to know he's nearby … to have him lay hands on me. But I don't dare. He's up to his ass in alligators, and I don't want to scare the living shit out of him with my problems!

Maybe if I sit still and close my eyes, I can sleep …

Good luck with that!

_Didn't I say that before, recently?_

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201


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25 "Winners"

Jules passed his driver's test with ease. The cop who tested him frowned when he read the information on his application and saw that his age was listed at twenty-eight. He looked about nineteen. Jules stared back at the man and laughed his melodic laugh, and assured him he was indeed twenty-eight years of age. He was born on January 31, 1978, he said. Jules had put on a few pounds and no longer looked like an orphan of the storm. He was slender and delicate featured, and looked like a teen-age high school student in jeans, sneakers and a "Marvin the Martian" tee shirt.

Wilson parked the little green Shadow in front of the police barracks and waited inside at the bay window. Jules finished the driver's course, parked the car once again and came up to him with a grin on his face, waving his driver's permit in the air, showing off the big, bright red stamp on the front of it that read: "_PASSED_".

James grinned back as they walked across to the car. Jules drove; he was official now. He backed out of the stall and they headed home to Ridge Road so Jules could pick up Roger and take him to the nearest Wendy's hamburger joint for celebratory burgers, fries and sodas.

Wilson paused patiently while Roger maneuvered himself with clumsy effort into the old car with his partner. He waved to them as Jules pulled smoothly out of the driveway. He then went into the garage, climbed into his Pacifica and left again to go back to work. He was now officially relieved of the burden of dragging the boys around with him every time they needed to be somewhere. James heaved a sigh and turned on his Bonnie Raitt CD, nodding in time with the music and forming an abstract mind picture of spring and a young man's fancy. He wondered with amusement whether or not he still qualified as a "young man" … not that he actually cared anymore …

It was the beginning of April and days were getting longer. Daylight Savings Time was finally back, and the weather was warming up. Crocuses, daffodils and forsythia bushes were beginning to bud and ready to push their petals outward. Homeowners were at last spending their first full day out of doors; raking lawns, playing with their children, and walking their dogs; getting ready to begin planting spring gardens. It was a day that seemed to fill a person with the joy of living and an extra appreciation for a world awaking at last from the harsh bonds of a prolonged winter.

Wilson drove into Princeton proper via East Side Drive and pulled the Pacifica into the physicians' reserved parking lot near the front entrance. He shut it down, got out and beeped the lock remote. Across in one of the blue handicap squares, Gregory House was arriving also in a crescendo of sound, killing the bike's engine, pulling off his helmet, unfastening his cane from its mount on the side of the suicide machine, and getting ready to disembark. Wilson waited on the sidewalk for his friend to ease his leg over the saddle, find a sense of balance and walk across in his direction.

Wilson noticed House still wore the Ace on his right knee, easily visible in outline beneath his jeans. At least he was back on the cane again. He knew Gregg had stayed at home the first three days of last week, leg propped up and iced, and moving around his place only with the aid of those old crutches.

Gregg would never have told him about his difficulties if he hadn't stopped by his place Monday night to check on him after he'd called in sick. He'd found his friend on the couch, disheveled and in pain, the crutches on the floor beside him.

Wilson had hurried over and knelt beside the couch, knocking the crutches half underneath with one knee. "Ahhh … House … what have you done to yourself now?"

His hand found Gregg's and he picked it up to caress the slender fingers.

House rolled his eyes, pursed his lips and pulled his hand away from Wilson's clasp. "What does it look like? I was practicing for my stage debut. You know … the Paul Newman role in 'Cat on a Hot Tin Roof'!"

"Jesus, House!"

Wilson had stayed long enough to cajole Gregg into allowing him to examine the swollen knee, determine that he had indeed twisted the medial collateral ligament. He'd assisted him back to his bed, removed his sweat pants and wrapped the knee firmly with a wide Ace bandage, taking great pains not to press against the infarction scar. He replaced the ice packs and dragged the crutches along with him, propping them within easy reach. "I have to get back to the boys," he said. "Will you be all right alone?"

"I managed to make it this far," House growled. "I can make it the rest of the way. Get going … get back to your 'children'! I'm fine."

Wilson left reluctantly and went home to his crippled brother. He was bothered by the fact that House was alone, and he'd stopped by House's place both nights thereafter, making sure he was fed and his leg tended to. He stood by wordlessly as House struggled back to the use of his cane.

Now, he waited on the sidewalk and eyed his friend who walked up to him with a smirk on his face. "Are you just coming in to work for the day?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Just asking. Glad you made it back okay. I see you're still wearing the bandage …"

"Thanks. Preventative medicine, I think it's called."

"Oh jeez!"

They turned together and walked in through the front entrance, past Cuddy's office, past the clinic, and on toward the elevator. Wilson bit his tongue and slowed his pace by degrees as House's gait became more ponderous. He was not as recovered as he would have liked Wilson to believe.

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"Julie, I'm bored out of my skull!"

It wasn't like Roger to whine, but today was the first time they'd been able to get away alone, and his restlessness which had built up over past weeks, was surfacing in increasing doses.

Jules curled an inquisitive eyebrow in his lover's direction and took another spoonful of Frostie, letting it melt slowly in his mouth. "I know what you're thinkin', mon … but no. It's too soon. You are not strong enough."

Roger frowned, dark eyes pleading. "Yes I am. I can walk on these damned things just fine. Besides, I don't need to be strong. I just need to be helpless, and I never had any trouble with that. C'mon, Julie … let's do one!"

Jules sighed. He usually deferred to Roger's demands and did whatever his partner asked. But not this time! Rodge was definitely improving in his use of the crutches, but his legs were still too weak and the pain too consistent. He could not maneuver skillfully enough or strongly enough yet to pull off one of their well-practiced scams with any hope of success. He was still in rehab twice a week, and after one of those sessions he was exhausted and in pain the rest of the day. He was not nearly ready enough for one of their little capers this soon. Jules sat calmly behind the wheel of the Shadow and put the last spoonful of Frostie in his mouth, clamped his teeth down on the plastic spoon and said sternly: "No! Not yet!"

Roger blinked. He was not used to hearing "no" from Jules, and it turned him grumpy and unreasonable. "_Why not?_"

"You know why not! You are still not strong enough, and I could not just run out and leave you behind, knowing you were in a strange place, in a strange neighborhood, and in the company of strangers! It would not work. You need at least another week." Jules stuck the empty Frostie cup back into the take-out bag and started the Shadow's engine. "Finish your lunch so I can throw the bag away."

"I'm finished!" Roger pouted. He dropped his half-full cup into the bag and crossed his arms angrily over his chest. He eyed Jules with a belligerent frown.

Jules laughed. "You look three years old when you make faces like that," he said. "I love you. I don't want anything to happen to you. You might not know this … because I did not say anything to you while you were so sick … but when we did the last one on the other side of town, I nearly got caught by the police."

Roger's jaw dropped. "What? You've got to be kidding! And you didn't tell me? How did it happen?"

"The old man caught me dipping into the cash register while his wife was tending to you on the floor. That is how. He made a grab for me, but I got away from him and ran out. There were two policemen only a half-block away, checking a bad traffic signal. I ran right past them and the old man was shouting behind me. One of the cops came after me and I was lucky to keep ahead of him. Then you must have got up, and the woman let you go. You ran into the street. You thought you had been asleep, but we were robbing the store. You hit your head and you were hallucinating, and I didn't want anyone to know."

Jules took the Shadow out of park and put it in gear. He pulled slowly over to the drive-out trash bin and dropped the bag through the chute. "One of Gregg House's doctors put our signal on a tree. That is how I found you. Young doctor Chase drove me to the hospital and took me to you. They have helped us because of their respect for your brother. Maybe _we_ should have more respect for Jimmy too, eh?"

Roger sat with his head down. Silent. "I'm sorry."

Jules shrugged. "Not your fault. You were sick, and I did not know how bad it really was. You could not help it. But now we are fine. Maybe some day we will not do this foolish thing anymore, eh?"

"But Jules … it's fun!"

"For you, perhaps."

"Not for you anymore though, huh?"

"Only because it pleases you."

"Once more then? Just once more … after I can walk better? Just one, then done?"

The eagerness in Roger's voice melted Jules' heart. He relented. He could deny his lover nothing. He smiled and waited for a break in traffic, then pulled out. "You know we must plan it …"

"Yeah, I know … but you're better at that than I am."

"We will find the right neighborhood. The store must not have a surveillance camera. No more than two people working … maybe a Mom and Pop. Not many customers."

"I know the drill …"

"I know you do. But you must be very careful. We will be in big trouble if we ever get caught. And you could be badly hurt. You are not strong."

"Yeah, I know."

"You brother will be ashamed of us …"

"I know that too, but he will never find out! Like I said, Julie … just one and then done."

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James Wilson stood in House's office, near the man's desk. His hands were in his pockets. The ducklings were next door in the DD room, pretending to not watch. It was the first time they'd seen Wilson in there in almost three weeks.

House looked up from his computer, pushed away the hard copy he'd been working on and laid down his pen. "Is there something I can help you with, Dr. Wilson?" His voice was soft, smooth and carefully modulated. His snark was carefully hidden beneath polite protocol, but Wilson could see the sparks emanating from the depths of the blue eyes. House was looking for an encounter. Any encounter would do!

"I see you removed the Ace," he accused quietly.

House blinked. "Uh … yeah." This was not the conversation he would have envisioned. He wasn't sure what reaction he was expecting, but it sure-as-hell wasn't this! "Why?"

"No reason. I assume things are … getting back to normal?"

"Unhhh … yeah." Damn! He was repeating himself. "I'm fine."

"I know. You're always fine! That stupid phrase is becoming your theme song. The boys and I are having roast beef and mashed potatoes for supper tonight. We have "Crash" and "Brokeback Mountain". I stopped by to ask if you'd like to join us for supper and videos. If so, is your leg good enough that you can drive yourself out to the house? If not, one of us can come and get you."

Gregg looked up, surprised. "Thought you'd never ask!"

Wilson grinned with one-upmanship; turned to walk away, but House called after him. Wilson glanced back over his shoulder and kept walking. "What?"

"I'll even bring the beer!"

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204


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26 "Business at Hand"

Lisa Cuddy was shuffling papers again. Eating lunch at her desk. Again. She picked up a pile of printouts, gathered them into her hands, tapped them straight on the surface of the desk. Fifteen minutes until the April budget meeting. She lifted her head and looked out the front door of the office to watch the goings on in the lobby. Wilson had just disappeared into the elevator, and she knew where he was headed. Other people flitted about like hummingbirds in stop-motion, some not sure where they were going, others stomping through on missions of dire intent, nearly colliding with the confused ones. A normal day!

There had been no sign of Gregory House anywhere near the clinic. He'd called off sick the first three days of the week. She knew he was back today, but still hiding out somewhere among the missing multitudes. House's priorities were his own, his motives deeply obscured behind that gruff exterior that gave no clue to what he was thinking, or along which mysterious pathways that devious mind might venture next. Actually, she was a little worried about him. He'd been deviating from his normal pathways lately, and when he did that, there was cause for dire concern.

She rolled her shoulders to ward off the stiffness from sitting too long, gathered up the remains of her lunch in a plastic grocery bag and deposited it in the trash. She didn't have time to check up on House now.

Lisa pulled her white lab coat off the back of her desk chair and stood up, all in one graceful motion, then pulled the coat on and smoothed the front. Her open brief case was propped against her "in" basket. She took the sizable stack of papers and fitted them deftly inside. Zipped it. She turned on her heel and took a quick look around the office. No use putting off the inevitable. The budget committee would be waiting in the main boardroom upstairs.

Wilson had already gone on ahead of her, and she needed to ask him about the rumors she'd heard circulating, which hinted at increased leg problems for House. She hated to even think about this, but could House be looking at a downturn in his nerve damage and pain issues? He seemed to be having more than his fair share of setbacks lately, and thinking back to the night he'd had to be taken out in a wheelchair, she needed an expert opinion. She hoped Wilson would talk to her candidly, rather than clam up and stonewall her about anything for which he did not have Gregg's express permission. He was often like a one-man posse when it came to protecting his best friend. The diagnostician's health might be a tricky subject to breech, but she did intend to breech it. House was, after all, her subordinate.

Cuddy took her brief case and left her office. She crossed the lobby, sidestepping like a contortionist through the human Buffalo stampede, and rang for the elevator. She had always prided herself in being prompt, and she had seven minutes to get to the boardroom on time.

The elevator doors pinged open presently, and Cuddy blinked in surprise. In front of her, big as life, stood "Speak of the Devil".

"Hal-l-lo-o-o-oooo, Dr. Cuddy!"

His high, snark-filled, falsetto grated on her nerves, but she shrugged it off with a roll of her eyes. He went on with a self-satisfied grin. "I certainly hope you are not about to abscond with hospital funds in that huge brief case! That would be strictly against hospital policy." It wasn't his best, by any means.

Hiding her quick assessment of his stance and body posture behind an exasperated frown, she pretended to dismiss his usual line of bull beneath a façade of indignation. He had missed work this week, allegedly due to increased instability in his leg, and Wilson had confided to her that House's abused knee had indeed caused him to spend the first two of those days on crutches.

"House …!"

But he was fast! Too fast!

He curled his bottom lip over his teeth and squinted at her in mild speculation. Damn him! He was reading her mind again! "The rumor mill can be a dangerous thing, Dr. Cuddy. You can't believe everything you hear … _unless_ you've heard that Dr. Wilson and I have been 'getting it on' … in which case you would be absolutely right!" His voice was louder than it needed to be, and the evil grin was off-putting.

Lisa gritted her teeth, but kept her dignity. She scowled.

He stepped out around her, moving ahead into the main lobby with a faltering cadence. She could tell he was avoiding every disapproving stare that followed his progress. She knew he was attempting to distract attention from his movements by looking back over his shoulder, the overloud remark calculated to deflect notice away from the difficult manner in which he was forced to favor his leg.

Cuddy ignored him and pressed the "up" button. The doors closed, hiding him from view.

_Damn him! _

Two could play at this game. She would talk to not only Wilson, but a call to Norm Lyons in Ortho might be in order also.

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Gregg House turned back to watch where he was going as he made his way carefully around the information-admitting desk in the lobby of the hospital. It was just past noon and the skies were threatening. There was a wind picking up, judging from the sway of trees out there, and from the sound of the weather forecast he'd heard earlier, he reckoned it would be better to take the suicide machine home and break out the Envoy. He did not hurry. He decided he had plenty of time to stash the bike away where it was out of the weather and return, if he returned at all, with the big SUV in order to keep from getting drowned on his way home tonight.

The uproar he'd caused in the lobby had gone away abruptly with the quicksilver dispersal of so many people with so many diverging destinations. It was almost like attempting to detain the flow of a river. The waves might roll and trough and slap the shore, and splash and foam, but the water always eddied impatiently and resumed its rush downstream, always impossible to detain. Hospitals were like that too. They ebbed and flowed, rushed ahead, and lightning never struck twice in the same place.

House reached the Honda and pulled the keys out of his pocket. He turned over the engine and the quiet machine rumbled, then purred like a well-fed leopard. He set his cane into the clamp on the starboard side and got ready to mount. His leg was touchy and he lifted it with a grunt to swing it across the saddle and let it slide down until his foot settled on the bar. He pulled on the black helmet and fastened the strap, then the leather riding gloves. He gunned the motor for a moment, and then lifted his left leg to the clutch.

Gregg let the powerful machine pull him with it in its eagerness to run, angling to the right between rows of parked cars. He headed for East Side Drive at a good clip, and was not surprised to feel the first fat raindrops splatter on his helmet visor and ricochet off the street. Lightning was striking off to the east, and already he could smell the ozone. His timing couldn't have been better. He pulled into the underground garage, gunned the powerful little engine one more time, and shut it off. Off came the helmet and gloves, down went the kickstand, and he pulled the cane away from its place on the frame.

Getting off was more difficult than getting on. He almost had to spring his hip joint to ease the limb back across the saddle, because there was no strength to lift it as a normal person might have done. He lowered his foot onto the concrete floor and settled the cane firmly beside it.

From the open end of the underground garage he could hear the whistle of the wind, low and moaning like someone blowing across the mouth of an empty soda bottle. He could feel the difference in temperature and atmospheric pressure tightening the large area of destroyed muscles in his thigh. When he began the walk to the elevator, his weakened knee joint felt unstable, as though it was trying to bend in the wrong direction. He pressed the "up" button with the cane tip and hop-stepped into the empty car, leaning gratefully into the back wall while the door closed and the lift ascended.

Inside the condo, House shed his jacket and headed to the couch. He had not brought his sports bag along with him, and therefore did not have access to either pager or cell phone. He should call the hospital and tell somebody that he was not coming in to finish out the day. He would cite personal errands as the reason, although anyone who knew him (and they all did), would realize it was one of his standard excuses which translated into his patented whine: "my leg hurts …"

He had not run the Envoy for weeks, and it stood in its stall downstairs gathering dust and saving gas. No matter. It could stand there a little longer. Actually, it was just too damn much trouble to pry his ass off the couch and hobble over to the phone to call in. The hell with it! Cuddy had seen him exit the elevator when he'd left, and she was no dummy. She would understand exactly why he was leaving. He'd been just too damned sore to try to hide the limp, and once in awhile all his stalling tactics garnered him nothing more than vacant looks and blank faces. Screw it!

The wind picked up with howling gusts as he sat there. This old building was solid and sturdily built, but even so, the whistling and groaning gave the illusion of battling a shifting ocean in a creaky galleon. Tree limbs swayed wildly and the skies overhead darkened and took on the look of purple twilight. All the early spring colors had been leeched from the earth, and now a cascade of wind-driven raindrops hammered the windowpanes and rattled the hallway door that opened onto the street. He could no longer see any definition between street and sidewalk, and he noticed with chagrin that streetlights were beginning to jitter on, forming hazy circles in the lowering gloom.

The angry weather made his leg angry also, and he could feel the constriction of the damaged muscles and nerve endings telling him that this was not a good development. He needed a Vicodin, but to get one out of his jeans pocket, he would have to shift position and disturb the angry leg.

So fucked!

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PPTH was buying a new "Open" MRI diagnostic machine. There had been only two bids, one of them in Colorado, the other in Montreal. It seemed they would purchase the domestic one, since that price had come in at $5,000 less than the Canadian one. They could expect delivery within six to twelve weeks.

The sky was dark outside the wall of windows on the north side of the boardroom. By the time the meeting adjourned, a wall of cascading rainwater had turned the wall of windows into a waterfall! It looked as though the individual drops were attempting to force their way through the glass, frantically seeking a means of breaking through the tiniest aperture and bursting into the room.

Lisa Cuddy folded the signed contract for the expenditure and placed it carefully in the zippered pocket of her briefcase. The board had voted unanimously for the purchase, and that alone was cause for celebration.

Across the table from her, James Wilson rose from his seat and their eyes met across the expanse of the big table. "That was rather … unexpected …" he said softly.

Cuddy smiled at him, continuing to look into the deep brown eyes. "Yes," she agreed with a whoosh of relief escaping between her teeth. "It certainly was." She slid her chair against the table and walked around it to meet him near the doorway. In the background, thunder rumbled and lightning strobed away the shadows in the corner.

The boardroom was vacant now, everything still a little disheveled with empty coffee cups and paper napkins discarded here and there. Chairs were askew and the coffee urn was unplugged and lonely on the three-tiered cart in the corner. Cuddy and Wilson entered the hallway together, leaving the lights on and the door open for Housekeeping to go in and straighten up.

"Do you have any educated guesses on a delivery date?" Wilson asked. "'Six-to-twelve-weeks' isn't much to work with."

"I won't know until I call I-Med and tell them their bid was successful. Once they know that, then I should be able to pin them down to at least a ballpark date. When the paper work goes through, then they'll have no choice but to get back to me with something concrete. It's kind of like a 'cat and mouse' game until then." She grinned disarmingly as they neared the elevator and Wilson reached out to press the "down" button.

"The next move is to get Maintenance into the new room to work out the floor plan and the power sources. The sooner they figure out the layout, the better. They already have the machine configurations from both the Colorado facility and the one in Montreal. Now I have to buzz LeRoy and have him alert his crew to the name of the successful bidder, and give him the go-ahead on preliminary work."

"In other words, let Maintenance know to have it ready in six weeks rather than twelve." Wilson smiled. He was well aware of Cuddy's no-nonsense methods of wringing the most work from the fewest employees in the least amount of time.

She frowned up at him, and then realized he was joking, and smiled back. "Dr. Wilson," she said, "you have been spending _way_ too much time in the company of Gregory House!"

"No I haven't." The statement was flat, and hung off the edge of his voice like a load of wet laundry. The elevator opened before them and they stepped inside.

"You haven't?"

"No. He came to my place for supper last night, but he wouldn't stay. He asked me to take him home soon after we ate … said it had nothing to do with his leg."

"That's strange, isn't it?"

Wilson shook his head. "You tell me! He's avoiding me, and I have no idea why."

Cuddy sighed. "That seems to be two of us. Of course, I'm used to it. But you?"

"No clue. I know he's been hiding in the clinic, and I know he's having some added problems with his leg … but he refuses to talk about it. I decided I'd just wait him out. I have enough to do right now with looking out for Roger and Jules."

"How are the boys doing?"

"Roger is up on crutches a lot more now, and he's working hard in rehab … mostly, I think, because of House going down to the gym and doing that … _ 'thing' _… he did on the crutches. It lit some kind of fire under Roger's butt and he's really trying to get his mobility back. It seems almost … 'goal-oriented' … to me!"

Cuddy listened to him talk, beginning to understand a few things. When the elevator stopped, they walked out together and continued through the corridor. "Wilson?"

"What?"

"I believe House is jealous of your brother and his friend." It was not a declaration; merely a statement of realization.

"Whaat?" This time the word changed dramatically from the merely inquisitive to the absolutely incredulous.

"You're not spending as much of your time with him … and it probably stings. He's really only ten years old, you know …"

Wilson's right hand went to the nape of his neck, a nervous habit he inevitably used when a sudden revelation hit him over the head like a baseball bat. "My God! You could be right. If he needs me … and feels I haven't been there for him …"

"Did you know he left at noon today?"

"No."

"He did. And I don't think he's coming back, even though he wasn't carrying his big blue backpack. He probably had all he could do just to carry himself. It was right about the same time the rain started. His limp did seem worse, and his leg looked stiff to me … at least more stiff than usual. I guess I thought at the time that he was just trying to do a number on me."

"The wetness and the storm may have a lot to do with it. He experiences more pain when the weather turns bad. He had to dig his rehab crutches out of his closet last weekend when the temperature was up and down every day. I may have to stop by his place and check on him when I leave tonight. I certainly don't want him to think he's been abandoned. There really_ is_ a lot of ten-year-old mentality in him … like you said. You know?

Cuddy grunted softly with a touch of good-natured sarcasm. "That's like asking me if I know my Rabbi is Jewish … and that sounds like a very good idea you have there, Dr. Wilson. Why don't you stop and see him?" They were in front of her office. She slowed down and stopped, turned to Wilson again. "So … where are you off to now?"

"The clinic calls …" He gestured resignedly toward the overflow of bodies across the lobby in the waiting room. He smiled, waggled his eyebrows, a very Housian gesture.

Cuddy noticed, but didn't comment. On Wilson, it looked rather sweet. "Later, then; it looks like I'm going to spend the rest of the afternoon with the telephone sticking out of my ear."

Their paths diverged: his straight-ahead and hers to the right.

Outside the main entrance, a heavy bolt of lightning followed by an immense thunder clap made everyone in the lobby flinch …

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Gregory House took two Vicodin tablets, hauled his weary body off the couch and retreated to his bedroom. He untied his shoes and removed them, then climbed gingerly onto his bed, turned onto his healthy left side and lay still with the hope of falling asleep awhile. Around him the sound of the rain battering at the windowpanes, and the thunder and lightning intruding even through the pulled draperies, lulled him, rather than tensed him. Finally he succumbed to the fatigue he'd felt from weeks of foreboding over 'George and Gracie', and at the sense of loss of James Wilson's companionship. He slept the sleep of the dead for almost two hours.

When House finally opened his eyes again, the wind had died down some, and the thunder and lightning had moved on. But the rain against the windows had not diminished. Gregg kept still and listened to the drumming while a parade of disjointed thoughts paraded through his mind and painted abstract mental pictures across the synapses of his brain. Sometimes this multi-layered turmoil that rushed around inside his head like a walnut in a suitcase was more bother than it was worth.

He'd always been well aware of this awesome, huge intelligence which lived inside him, and that his IQ went through the roof. Just once in awhile though, he would have given a king's ransom for all of it to quiet down and just let him alone awhile. But the thoughts and speculation persisted. Through all the intrusions into their lives lately, and the interuptions caused by the presence of the two young man, House's brain insisted on warning him that Jimmy Wilson was riding for a fall … and that the fall would be a hard one indeed.

His right hand moved off the surface of the bed and gravitated to his hip, as though with a mind of its own. His fingertips trailed downward, exploring the tenseness that began high in the damaged musculature of his upper thigh. Foul weather had never been a friend to the infarction site, and now he could feel the twitch as his hand moved to the scar and his palm bridged the hollow indentation where the quadriceps had been. Even his own touch ignited sparks of pain from the damaged nerve endings, and the warmth from his palm did nothing to quell the misery it awoke there. He jerked his hand away and winced.

He knew he could not allow himself to lie here any longer. Pain or no pain, he must move, for this was the nature of the beast. To move not at all caused pain. To move too much also caused pain. Ergo: you did what you must do, and you bit the bullet!

Gregg knew about all the crap that said you should never take a shower during a thunderstorm. Bullshit! At 7:00 p.m. it was still raining cats and dogs and he stood under the soothing hot water and hung onto the grab rails with both hands. The swollen area around his knee had gone down some, but the entire leg still ached.

He'd finally pushed himself off the bed, dug into a jeans pocket and ground a couple of his meds between his teeth. He still tasted the bitter residue of the pills, even after having stood in the shower for more than fifteen minutes. Thinking he should be sufficiently "prunified" by that time, he turned the water off and just stood still, enjoying the tingle of sensation as it slowly left the surface of his skin. He let his head fall back between his shoulder blades until the tension in his back and neck muscles told him it was time to stop.

Gregg pulled on an old pair of flimsy pajama bottoms and an old tee shirt. He didn't run the Remington, although his roughening beard could certainly have used a trim. Not now. Later! He did brush his teeth, however, feeling the strong peppermint flavor rinse away some of the aftertaste of the Vicodin. He scrubbed a hand through his thinning mop, peered into the mirror and called it good enough. He was not preening for anybody and he was prepared for another long night alone.

He landed back on the couch at nearly 9:00 p.m. with a bag of potato chips and a Silver Bullet. Picking up the remote, he turned on the TV and began to channel surf. God! What a perfect spectrum of absolutely nothing! He finally settled on Fox News Channel and muted the sound. Bill O'Reilly was just going off the air. Gregg smirked, reading the guy's lips. He was asking for emails with "pithy" comments. Wonderful! Pithy comments that agreed with Bill O'Reilly! Next up, Hannity and Colmes; more blah-blah-blah!

He drew his right knee up a tad, leaning it against the back of the couch, testing pain levels. Sometimes this method worked, sometimes not. He could feel the movement of his medial collateral ligament with the tips of his fingers, and it was still touchy, not yet ready to give up its anger. He lowered his leg again and straightened the knee, shoving the extra couch pillow beneath it. That helped. Some of the anger abated. He snorted to himself, half exasperated that he would still accuse a body part of possessing such a thing as anger.

He lay cockeyed with his back partly pressed against the arm of the sofa, right arm thrown over the backrest. His left hand lay angled across his stomach, elbow digging into the cushion below. It was not the most comfortable position, but something totally skewed about it reduced the flair of raw ache in his knee. Staring blankly at the TV screen, he began to feel himself floating, eyelids drooping again, as though he had not already had enough sleep! It seemed that he had spent far too long in a state of fatigue and lethargy that dragged at his mind and body, and he was beginning to not care, one way or the other.

He missed the hell out of Wilson, but when he'd been out on Ridge Road for supper the night before, Roger and Jules had dominated the conversation and the television, and James had let them. By the time eight o'clock rolled around, his mind was as thick as split pea soup, and his leg felt like an iron bar. He asked Wilson to drive him back home.

He hadn't wanted to return to work this morning at all, but somehow the obligation weighed heavy. He'd been lucky just to make it until noon. Snarking at Cuddy on his way out through the lobby had not even provided a respite. And he'd forgotten his sports bag. It had his bottle of Vicodin in it. All he had to last until morning were the two that still remained in his jeans pocket.

_Shit!_

Outside, the wind had resumed with renewed vigor, and the incessant rain drummed a staccato beat on all the windowpanes. Forks of lightning preceded heavy thunderclaps that made the building's foundation quiver. The storm was not over. Not by a long shot. If this kept up, he could forget about getting any sleep tonight. He finished the Coors and set the potato chip bag aside, wishing there was more to eat around the place than stale whole wheat bread and Peter Pan peanut better. No way in hell was he going out in this mess to buy anything, and the thought of ordering pizza or Chinese and having it delivered soaking wet, nauseated him.

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He heard the outside door bang open to the howl of the wind at 9:15 p.m., and then blow shut again like a cannon going off. Some idiot had been out in this freaking storm, for whatever asinine reason. He hoped whoever-it-was ended up with pneumonia! There were heavy footsteps in the vestibule, then a pause. House listened for some clue to the apartment the idiot would enter. The next thing he heard was a series of clunky knocks at his own front door, another pause, and then the scratchy sound of a key in the lock.

Gregg smiled and rolled his eyes. And suddenly his pain and the hollow feeling he'd been experiencing, and the foreboding that had pissed around with his mind, receded to manageable levels.

_Wilson!_

It was Wilson! Why the hell hadn't he parked downstairs?

House turned himself to an upright position laboriously, picked up his cane and struggled up from the couch to turn on a light or two.

James came through the front door in a flurry; butt first. He was soaked. He was dressed in old clothing, carrying House's sports bag over his left shoulder, the dilapidated grocery bag with the moist heat pad box in his left hand, and a loaded-down, fragrant-smelling plastic bag marked "KFC" with a picture of The Colonel, in his right hand. His key case was stuck between his clenched teeth, and he was indeed the personification of "A Greek bearing gifts" … a half-drowned, oh-so-welcome Greek.

House could not remember when he had been so glad to see someone. "The last time you came through my front door looking like that, you ended up in the fucking hospital!"

Wilson tossed a withering look back over his shoulder, but turned himself around and stomped off wetly toward the kitchen. "Yeaff, Houhff … I 'ove 'oou too!" He was trying to talk around his car keys, but Gregg got the meaning and grinned.

He followed his friend slowly, bare feet slopping through the wetness left behind by Wilson's wet shoes. "You're flooding the goddamned kitchen," he said gleefully. He could not believe how happy he felt that the man was actually there. Complete with food!

"So go get the mop if you don't like it!" Wilson bitched back at him. He'd spit his keys out onto the counter and followed them quickly with the two plastic bags and House's blue sports bag. "Some people just don't appreciate anything!" He slid out of his wet GAP jacket and threw it down on the butcher-block table. Quickly he turned back again and shook rainwater out of his moppy hair, droplets showering everything within a two-foot radius, including House and his old tee shirt and raggedy PJ bottoms.

House gasped. "Christ! I think you're part water spaniel! What're you doing here anyway? Do you know what time it is?" House didn't give a fuck _what_ time it was; he was just trying to tell Wilson how glad he was to see him by not actually telling him how glad he was to see him!

_This stupid, screwed-up friendship!_

Wilson was in the middle of toeing off his moccasins, kicking them into a corner. He turned to the left and pulled the KFC bag away from the others, set it on the butcher-block table and began to remove containers. "Kentucky Fried Chicken," he announced proudly and unnecessarily. "Extra crispy. Biscuits. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Cole slaw. I hope you're hungry. Cuddy said you left around lunchtime today … and if I know you, you don't have a freaking thing to eat around here except peanut butter … and maybe mayonnaise …

"Yeah … of course I know what time it is, you idiot! I just left the hospital a half hour ago. I was charting, catching up with paperwork. I knew I wouldn't be interrupted … because _you_ weren't there!

"Rodge and Jules don't expect me home tonight, because I told them where I was going when I got finished. In fact, they thought it was a pretty good idea. They both knew you weren't feeling too solid last night. So there! You satisfied? Oh yeah … that means I'm staying over. I know your leg is acting up. I'm going to check the ligaments in your knee and I don't want to hear any crap!" When Wilson shut up long enough to glance over at his friend, House could see the brown eyes dancing with affection and one-upmanship.

"Don't just stand there!" Wilson continued. "Get us some paper plates and napkins so we can eat this stuff before it gets ice around the edges. And get us each a beer!"

House moved to comply, for once not commenting. The deep furrows made by his dimples as he barely managed to contain a smile, was the only indication of his sudden transition from ennui to animation.

Wilson took their plates, loaded with food, into the living room and set them on the coffee table. House followed, balancing two silver bullets in his left hand, curled over his cane on the right. His tense movements were not lost on Wilson, who chose not to comment. At least not yet! He took a perverse delight that House was becoming suddenly reanimated. Cuddy had been right. House was jealous. He had missed him!

They sat close together on the couch, not saying much, just crunching the chicken and relishing their close proximity to one another.

When they were finished, nothing was left but a pile of bare chicken bones and half a teaspoon of coleslaw on the edge of Wilson's plate. They sat in silence except for sighs of satisfied pleasure. The thunder and lightning and wind had tamed down again, but the rain continued. On the TV, Greta Van Susteren's face stared disinterestedly out of the screen. Without benefit of sound, she just looked silly.

House leaned forward to place his empty beer can beside the train wreck of dinner plates. He'd been sitting casually, slid down on the couch, legs propped on the coffee table by the pile of discarded supper remains. Unobtrusively, Wilson watched him. House was pulling off "casual" very well, and if the oncologist hadn't known him so intimately, he might have gotten away with the charade. But the strain on his face gave away the fact that he was sore and uncomfortable and probably giving one of the performances of his life.

"Do you need your meds out of your back pack?" Wilson ventured with a casualness of his own that rivaled that of his friend.

House rolled his eyes to the right and met the questioning stare of the other man whose eyes were rolled all the way to the left. The jig was up. "Yeah."

Wilson was off the couch, into the kitchen and back again within a few seconds. He had the blue backpack in his hands. "Here."

House took it from him. "Thanks."

"Sure. I'm going to take a shower and borrow a pair of your sweat pants and a shirt."

"Okay. Thanks for bringing this … and for supper … and for bringing the heat pad." His eyes were downcast, and Wilson knew how difficult it was for him to voice gratitude.

"You're welcome. I won't be long."

A quick nod of the dark head was the only acknowledgment.

Refreshed and warm and tired and content, Wilson rejoined House on the couch fifteen minutes later. Amazingly, House had cleaned off the coffee table and put all empty containers in the trash. "I could have done that," Wilson told him.

"Yeah," House agreed. "I know."

Finally Wilson suggested they call it a night.

House nodded ascent. He downed the last of the Vicodin that remained from the handful he'd kept in his jeans pocket. He palmed the fresh bottle from his sports bag and heaved himself clumsily to his feet.

Wilson shut off the television and went back into the kitchen to retrieve the moist heat pad from its box. "Get into bed and take off your pants," he called from the kitchen sink "I'll be in as soon as I wet down the pad."

House was in bed, stark naked, eyes closed to mere slits. His cock was flaccid. He had removed not only his PJ bottoms, but also the boxer briefs and tee shirt. His arms lay curled on the pillow above his head. His ribs stuck out like the keyboard of a xylophone, and the concave stomach, even full of Kentucky Fried Chicken, made him resemble a fugitive from a concentration camp. He was all flat planes, sharp angles and shallow indentations. His long, bony feet stuck straight up in the air, and the difference in the musculature of his legs was at first off-putting.

Wilson's heart skipped a beat, and he could feel the sting at the corners of his eyes. He swallowed hard. He must not let Gregg see him giving in to even a moment of pity, or anything near it. It had never had anything to do with defining their relationship, and he would not allow it to do so now.

Wilson pulled himself up with determination and looked at his friend boldly, wantonly. He felt a stir below the waist at the sight displayed before him, but restrained himself with effort. House had done this on purpose, drawing attention away from his leg by the only means possible. Damn him! Wilson climbed onto the bed beside him and moved across to sit by House's healthy left side. Tenderly he cupped Gregg's face between the palms of his hands and leaned down to place a kiss on the pliant lips.

The blue eyes opened wider below his gaze, and penetrated deeply into his own with a mixture of humor and seduction. "Is this what you wanted?"

Wilson's senses picked up on the residual aromas of chicken, beer and a trace of peppermint that floated on House's breath. His brow furrowed for a moment before he finally smiled. "Exactly what I want!" he whispered in return, "but not tonight. You're in pain and I have no intention of making it worse. So stop trying to distract me. I said I was going to check your knee, and I wasn't kidding. Okay?"

The eyes darted away quickly, dimming with resignation. "Yeah … okay. Can't blame an old cripple for trying …"

Wilson smiled and shook his head. "I can think of a lot of things I could blame an old cripple for …"

"But you won't."

"No."

Wilson's educated fingers gently mapped the junctions of House's painful knee. Only when he strayed upward toward the infarction scar did Gregg's breath catch and his body tense. Most of the pain seemed to be emanating from the damaged nerves at the old infarction site, but radiating down to the knee. His gentle probe of the injured ligaments revealed the slow healing that was just beginning to take place. House would continue to experience elevated pain for awhile yet, but it should soon begin to subside as the ligament gradually went back to its normal configuration. If he continued to use the moist heating pad when he went to bed at night, its effects could make quite a difference in the amount of healing time he would have to endure.

With careful movements, James Wilson settled the moist pad on House's leg and drew up the sides of the heated wrap to enfold the painful limb within it. He fastened it down, and, as in the first time he'd employed this method weeks before, settled one of the bed pillows beneath Gregg's knee, allowing it to bend slightly so that a small part of the limb's weight would rest on his heel.

Gregg did not move, but watched with interest, offering no resistance as Wilson finished up. James looked up and met his intent gaze at last. "How does it feel?"

"It's fine." Standard answer, of course! He would probably say it was "fine" even if there was smoke rising …

Wilson got off the bed, dimmed the lamp on the nightstand, flipped off the overhead light. He climbed back beside his lover's left side, and pulled the covers across until they cocooned both of them. He placed a protective arm across Gregg's body. "God, I've missed you …"

"Ummmnh … me too …"

They slept.

Outside, the storm finally wore itself out. Clouds lifted and the moon shown down again.

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219


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27 "All These Men …"

Christopher Baker and his brother Benjamin were both in their seventies. They were remnants of World War II, Big Bands and The New Deal. Both men had been married to women they loved, but had lost to cancer and Parkinson's Disease. Neither of them wanted to spend the rest of their years alone, and so had pooled their resources and opened a tiny grocery store in the Princeton suburbs.

Ben Baker was seventy-three, a tall, thin man with a thick shock of mousey brown hair that had never gone completely gray. He had a large nose, which fit well in the middle of his long face, and an Adam's apple that bobbed up and down when he talked, like a bobber on a fishing line. He wore horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses, and hearing aids in both ears. He dressed himself in a plethora of plaid shirts: flannel in the winter and cotton in the summer, and topped them with denim coveralls whose side buttons were never buttoned.

Ben had a boisterous sense of humor and a laugh that shook the rafters. He doted on the neighborhood kids and regaled them with stories of smelly outhouses, wringer washers, bamboo fishing poles and Model T Fords. He told them of his adventures during his misspent youth, sans benefit of electronic gadgets and televisions to prunify in front of or computers with which to fry his brain. In return, kids followed him around as though they were the mice and he was the pied piper of Hamlin. Ben paid them to bring him any old bottles they could find, saying: "Glass, mind'ya! If you turn up with anything made of plastic, I'll make a dent in your heads with 'em!" The kids laughed and began to bring him old glass bottles. He perched them on a long shelf in the living room as they accumulated. Ben knew exactly which kid had brought him which bottle. He didn't covet the damn things, or collect them, exactly; he just figured the treasure hunt would keep the kids out of trouble and off the streets, and earn them a buck or two to blow however they wanted.

In stark contrast, Christopher Baker, seventy-five, was what used to be called a "dandy". Chris had a closet full of gabardine slacks, most of which were gray or beige. They were of an expensive quality and all of them made pre-war. They were baggy legged in a familiar forties style, and all had heavy darts at the beltline above each leg. In the same closet lived dozens of cotton shirts, which he took great pride in ironing himself. Most of them were white, but he also owned some summery light-hued ones; all solid colors.

Chris was very conservative, and his one venture into boldness was the fact that he wore his light blue, pink, mint green and yellow shirts with no regard for the bold younger generation who scoffed: "Watch out for guys who wear pastel shirts! Haw haw haw!" He knew what they were implying, but he simply paid them no attention. He was a little too old for that stuff to concern him. Chris's hair was sparse and snow white. He had bragged for years that he combed it with a washcloth. His glasses were trifocal, the frames thin and gold. Some of the old timers in the close-knit neighborhood told him he looked a little like Charlie Ruggles, and he took that as a compliment. "Miracle on Thirty Fourth Street" was one of his favorite movies. He was quiet, observant and intelligent, and his sense of humor ran mostly to tongue-in-cheek, and sometimes you had to think for a moment before you figured out what the hell he was talking about. Chris laughed mostly with his eyes. But loudly! He loved being obscure. He loved the Big Band sounds of the Dorsey Brothers and Glenn Miller and the schmaltz of Lawrence Welk. He remembered being the first in his neighborhood to buy his wife the wonderful Crosley "store-door" refrigerator and later, an Amana "radar range." He had also bought her a clunky DuMont television in the fall of 1951. Christopher Baker was an old fashioned modern man!

Both brothers were recipients of monthly Social Security checks and company pensions, their reward for many years of service at a local corporation, which manufactured building insulation. Ben had been head of the maintenance department, while Chris worked in the office as payroll head and procurement officer. Both men were vegetarians, lovers of grand opera, and die-hard Yankee fans. They were connoisseurs of exotic coffees and obscure brands of imported cheeses, and expensive Cuban cigars, which they took great pains to hide from their customers. The brothers had lived their entire lives in Princeton, New Jersey, and had no desire to live anywhere else.

When Chris lost Katie to cancer in 1995, he sold his house and moved in with Ben, whose wife Mary Ellen had lost her battle with Parkinson's three years before. The brothers were both newly retired then, and found that the time on their hands weighed heavy after busy and active lives with good jobs and solid marriages. Neither of them had been blessed with children, and so, as time passed, both cast about for a means of keeping themselves busy.

The grocery store was Chris's idea. He was good at figures, good at organization, and very good at the art of interior decoration. Ben was a little skeptical at first. He had a keen eye for layout, was a genius with hammer and nail, and had a gift of gab, which drew people to him like a magnet.

"What-the-hell-all you figure to sell in this here grocery store of yours?" Was his first question when the idea initially came up.

"Grocery store of _ours!_" Chris was quick to point out. "I thought we'd stock pretty much a lot of staples … you know … bread, milk, eggs, cold cuts and cheese, ice cream, soda pop, and all like that. Why?"

"Jus' wondered. And where is this place gonna be located at? You got someplace already staked out?"

"Right here, dummy!" Chris's hand made a sweep of the huge living room in which they were standing. "We don't really have a need for all this space. We've got the whole upstairs, for crying out loud! We could turn this into a really nice little store for people to come to when they need something quick. We'd probably need a zoning variance to build a storefront … but this neighborhood has nothing like it right now … and I don't think it would be much of a problem. I can make some phone calls and see what all it would take …"

Ben was silent for a moment, and skeptical, wondering whether his brother had gone a little soft in the head. Chris, however, could see the little wheels turning and turning inside Ben's mind, instantly cottoning to the idea. Shortly, Ben's body began turning also, along with his head, around and around. His meandering gaze scoped out the room's contours, tracing electrical outlets, possible locations for refrigeration, water, shelving and counter space. He was estimating the costs of lumber, hardware, sheathing, sanitation, and electrical installations. When he stopped turning and stood still to look at his brother, his long face was contemplative. "I guess it could be done. One thing though …"

Chris cringed. "What's that?"

"We take out the dining room too. Open 'er up. Make it bigger than just the living room. I want a wood burner stove in the middle. Couple of old captain's chairs. Pickle barrel. Cheese wheel. Table with a coffee urn on it, an' some donuts … space for a 'Spit'n'Whittle Club'!" His eyes remained fastened on his brother's face, but the look had become a glare of challenge.

Chris frowned, but hesitated for no more than a few moments. "Done! Except that nobody spits, and nobody whittles!"

"Reckon I can live with that."

The Neighborhood Store was born in the spring of 1997. The brothers stocked it with dairy products, cold cuts and cheeses, breads and buns, potato and other chips, cakes, cookies, pies and other pastries, catsup and mustard, a display case of what used to be called "penny candy," a varied selection of canned goods, lots of soda pop, and a whole freezer full of exotic ice cream flavors.

A shelf that went all the way around the room a foot or two beneath the ceiling, showed off the extensive collection of ratty old bottles with children's names Scotch taped on them, old crocks, and other ancient cooking implements and oddities. Modern accouterments were mostly hidden beneath old fashioned framing and hardware, lovingly installed by Ben Baker's capable hands. The place looked like it had come directly through a time warp from the early 1900's. Flying in the face of convention, however, the brothers refused to carry tobacco products of any kind, and for that, they won the unconditional support of every parent on the block!

The little store was an immediate success, and a few of the older gentlemen who lived close by, quickly took to stopping there to waste time in the captain's chairs shooting the breeze, haggling Ben and Chris for coffee and doughnuts or a slice of good cheddar cheese or a big dill pickle … giving credence to the "Spit 'n' Whittle Club" by neither spitting nor whittling. By the second week of its existence, the Neighborhood Store was turning a profit.

Sometimes in the early evenings when no customers were about, Chris and Ben Baker took over the chairs by the wood burner stove and relaxed with coffee and conversation of their own, and an occasional cigar (on the sly, of course), as evening turned to night and it was time to put the place to bed and close up.

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Jules parked the Shadow in its usual space outside the garage. He shut down the little car's engine, turned off the radio and the lights and pulled the keys out of the ignition. The sun had peeked over the horizon as he'd turned off Route 206 and headed out Ridge Road.

Jimmy's Pacifica, of course, was not in the garage. The overhead door was open and the space was empty. It had been that way all day yesterday, and remained so this morning. Jules knew Jimmy had been worried about Gregory House, and when he'd called from the hospital to let them know he was going to stop by East Side Drive after work, Jules and Roger both knew he wouldn't be coming home for awhile.

Jules hoped Roger would still be sleeping when he went into the house. His lover would be worried if he woke up and found the place at his side to be empty, and Jules did not wish to cause him worry. He'd been on a mission, however, and he knew Roger would be excited to hear about it.

Jules knelt at Roger's side of the bed and touched his partner's face tenderly. Roger opened his eyes and looked up in sleepy puzzlement. "I have found the place!" Jules kept his voice low, as though hiding the news from the very air they breathed.

Roger stared up at his lover with ardent anticipation, fully awake now. He threw back the covers and struggled to sit up. He picked up his crutches and prepared to rise. "You mean you … ?"

"Yes. I have been watching, as you asked. I went there while you slept. Jimmy spent the night at Gregg's place, and I waited until very early this morning so he would have no cause to worry that I have been prowling at night.

"It is the same place we drove past with Jimmy when we were in the car with him on the way to the grocery store. I thought it might be the ideal location. I went back to be sure. It is quite small and it is in a house. I asked at an all-night gas station. There are two brothers, and they are old men. They live above the store. We must not harm them, but we can do it."

"Will I be able to get in? With these?" Roger indicated his crutches. He had been practicing diligently for weeks, doing the hydrotherapy and the physical therapy. He was still very lame, but the improvement in his strength was noticeable.

"Yes," Jules said. "One small step, and in. It opens off the sidewalk. You need only be careful going across the threshold. I will hold the door for you … as would anyone for someone disabled … anyone with manners, that is." Jules smiled. "I think it will be simple. Two old men could never catch me. Especially if you keep one of them busy … and remember … you promised me … one and then done."

"Yes … I know. I promised, and I'll keep my promise. It'll be easy, love." Roger smiled with anticipation. "Especially with my legs in the condition they are now. I never thought being a cripple could be a good thing. But it is. It has forced me to be pathetic, useless. And I …"

"Roger!" Jules could feel his exasperation surfacing. "You are not useless! And you are slowly getting well. You will never be useless to me. You are my life." Jules sat down on the bed at his lover's side and leaned toward the other man's shoulder. Gently he reached across and took the crutches from Roger's hands and placed them back on the floor. "Please don't say such things to me. It makes me very sad."

"But … I've heard Gregg say the same things to Jimmy …"

"Such bitter remarks are part of Gregg's personality. He does it to gauge people's reactions and try to find out what they're really thinking. Your brother loves him, and he is used to the sarcasm. He is well aware of the way Gregg hones all his considerable intellect and wit on him. Gregg does it to Jimmy with love … if you listen in the right way … and you know it!" Jules smiled. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers through Roger's soft, long brown hair. He traced Roger's eyebrow with his thumb and leaned across to brush the soft lips with his own. "I love you very much."

Roger frowned for a moment, and then returned the kiss tenderly. "Yes, I know. I'm very lucky. I love you too." He knew how fortunate he was to have this man; knew that without him, his life would be empty indeed. And yet, even as he spoke, he could feel a furious restlessness deep within himself that he could not deny, and which he could barely hold in check.

If he were healthy, Roger Wilson knew the two of them would both be long gone from this place. They were still here only because he had to be! He was marking time until the pain of movement began to lessen further, and he could handle himself without the constant assistance of others. There was a hunger and a need which had always lived deep inside him, never curbed for long, and always surging upward with an urgency he did not know how much longer he could control.

Jules LeBeque, likewise, was aware of this unrest within his partner, and it frightened him sometimes. He knew, as well as he knew the sun would shine, that if Roger did not learn to curb his passion for danger and excitement, they would both go down in flames one day … and there would be hell to pay for those who had given their time and effort to help them

Jules had never known anyone as loving and compassionate as this sweet person at his side, but sometimes he had a strange feeling that there were two Rogers: the other one a bold and daring stranger that he could never get a handle on. But Jules knew he would remain for the long haul. Whatever Roger demanded, he would certainly do without even thinking about it, and damn the consequences!

Love was a selfish dictator that way. It dictated to you. You did not dictate to it. Jules wished often that his resolve were stronger, his love greater, and that his sense of disaster would not continue to hold such a black cloud over their heads.

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Gregg House got himself dressed while Wilson was in the bathroom doing whatever the hell he did in there in the mornings. He could hear the Norelco razor, and then the Sunbeam hair dryer, and then some other little buzzy-assed motor that he had no idea what the crap it was. Listening to all these mini-manufacturing noises, however, took his mind off the pain in his leg when he pulled on his underwear, socks, jeans, and then leaned down to tie his shoes.

_Ow! Fuck!_

It was a ritual he went through every day of his working life, and he should be used to it. But he never was. By the time he was presentable, he had little stamina to spare for ironed shirts, buttoned cuffs, meticulously combed hair and close shaves. He was usually puffing and in pain by the time he'd finished with the essentials. What was much more important to him was the fact that he was presenting Princeton-Plainsboro with diagnostic skills of epic proportions. He was not engaging in any kind of beauty contest. He would leave that kind of crap to Wilson!

Finally finished dressing, he swallowed his first Vicodin of the day and pulled his cane away from where it was propped against the nightstand. He checked the switch on the heating pad and flipped the power off. Actually, his leg was not firing too many angry little arrows at him this morning, so the moist heat had actually helped. Small favors!

Wilson stepped out of the bathroom looking like a million bucks and then some. House bit his tongue to keep from laughing his ass off at the man. God, he was gorgeous!

"What the living hell was that third machine I heard you running in there? You got a freakin' motorboat in the bathtub or something?"

Wilson frowned, half annoyed. "I was running the steamer … getting some of the wrinkles out of these slacks. You had them jammed in the back of your closet! Why? _What_ motorboat? You don't _have _a bathtub!"

House moved past him, snickering, and entered the bathroom that Wilson had just vacated. "Jesus!" He exclaimed. "It stinks like a hog barn in here! What crawled into you and died? _Oh Christ! Phew!_ Rotten eggs smell better than your farts!"

"Shut up, House!" The other man's voice faded away, heading toward the kitchen.

House grinned, put up the commode seat and took a leak; held his breath, counted to ten. Twice!

They had coffee on their way to work, bought by Wilson, of course, at a Dunkin' Donuts Restaurant halfway to the hospital.

Wilson did not ask how House's leg felt this morning.

House did not offer any information; just whistled through his teeth while Bonnie Raitt sang softly on the stereo.

Wilson pulled the Pacifica into a handicap spot on the outside parking lot and Gregg walked, with effort, into the building. Wilson got the information he sought without uttering a word.

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224


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28 "Get Ready … Get Set …"

House dropped his sports bag on the floor beside his workstation and pulled out the large chair. He shouldered out of the beige sports jacket and flopped it haphazardly over the back. Angling the cane across the surface of the desk, he eased into the chair and turned to check for phone messages and emails before going next door for his first cup of coffee.

Nothing.

"Suzy Homemaker" Cameron had obviously gotten there first. There was nothing in the in-box except a layer of dust and a single sheet of paper. House plucked it out and held it distastefully between thumb and forefinger. Now what? It was obviously an inter-office communication with Norm Lyons' letterhead, and a short, handwritten note.

House frowned. A memo on his desk that had originated in the office of Norman Lyons was not something he normally felt good about if it landed anywhere within fifty feet of his own office! It usually meant that pain would ensue. A frown deepened the creases between House's eyes as he quickly read it.

"Dr. Gregory House:

Upon express instructions of Hospital Administrator, Lisa Cuddy, M. D., PPTH,

Dr. House is hereby ordered to report to the Department of Orthopedics at 9:30 a.m.,

Friday, April 14, 2006.

Norman Lyons

Director"

That was, of course, today.

_Ordered?_

With a muttered curse, Gregg crushed the piece of paper in his hand and flung it into the wastebasket beneath his desk.

In the DD Room next door, a sudden flurry of activity told House that his minions had been watching his every move, and at this moment, money was changing hands.

Foreman and Chase had been informed of the memo's existence by little Miss Blabbermouth, and they had done what he'd so often accused them of doing: they'd made bets on his reaction to it. He hadn't let them down; his reaction had been predictable, and they'd seen many manifestations of it over the past couple of years. He'd taught them well. Cash had been laid on the table in response.

He glared across in their direction, but things over there were subtly grinding down into slow motion.

Cameron stood with her back turned, looking out the front window, a glass of Sunny D in her hand, no doubt. Foreman was nothing more than a dark shadow in the far corner, a folded newspaper obscuring his lower face and shoulders. Only Chase, sitting at the table with one of his damned crossword puzzles in front of him, looked guilty, like the little kid caught with his fingers in the cookie jar.

House swiped his cane off the surface of the desk and levered himself angrily to his feet. He knew Lyons' note was the result of one person's actions; it wasn't something the kids had done. Wilson had squealed to Cuddy about his recent problems with his leg, and Cuddy had gone straight to Norm with that information.

That was all he needed: further unwanted attention on top of the recent increase in pain. Now he could count on hours of poking, prodding and probing at his tender, slowly healing knee and the incredibly sensitive infarction site. When the hell would people learn to mind their own business? What the hell was Wilson thinking?

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_

House walked toward the door leading to the adjacent room, hot under the collar and at the same time, rattled by the sudden feeling of frailty he could feel draining his strength. If this crap kept up much longer, these people might succeed in their ongoing efforts to make a damned invalid of him. He could feel the instability of his right leg even as he lengthened his stride in defiance of the pain he tried constantly to ignore. One day he might even begin to believe it. And that would be the day of his certain downfall.

He walked over to the little sink and hung his cane over the edge. He shifted his entire body weight to the left and took his red coffee cup down from the shelf above it.

"Who won the bet?" He said it deliberately soft; they had to strain to catch it, but he had no doubt that they had, indeed, heard the question.

There was a moment of shuffling of feet as he poured himself a cup of coffee and rummaged in the drawer for a packet of sugar. They all turned to stare at him as though he'd suddenly grown another nose in the middle of his face.

"Bet? What bet?" Chase, of course.

He chuffed a snort of disdain through his nose and then lifted the cup to his lips; took a noisy slurp of the hot coffee. "Don't insult my intelligence!"

There was a pregnant pause. Foreman lowered his newspaper and slapped it down onto the surface of the table. "I did!" He said. "Cameron thought you'd toss the note back on the desk and ignore it. Chase said you'd rip it in half and drop it in the wastebasket. I said you'd crush it in your hand like an eggshell, cuss like a sailor and slam it in the waste can. I came closest to getting it right."

"How much you win?"

"Twenty bucks each," Foreman said with a defiant grin. "Doesn't it bother you at all that you're becoming so damned predictable?"

"Nah. Pretty soon I'm going to start asking for kickbacks!"

"Why doesn't _that_ surprise me?"

"Probably, because it's just one more thing that's getting predictable around here!" House eyed them all accusingly until each one looked away. "Got any new cases?"

"No-o-o … We're all scheduled for clinic this morning," Chase ventured. "Unless you can think of anything better?" They all looked up again, hopefully, and Cameron stole a glance at his bent leg, concerned.

House took another sip of coffee, avoiding their scrutiny. "Nope … don't let _me_ hold you up! It seems I have an appointment in Orthopedics in …" he frowned at his watch … "twenty minutes! Wilson's _so_ gonna owe me … big time!"

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It was going on noon at the pretty Cape Cod house on Ridge Road. Roger Wilson and Jules LeBeque had been up for hours, and were making plans.

Jules was decked out in a navy blue jogging suit and white running shoes. There was a white terrycloth sweatband around his head, and he resembled, Roger thought, a long-limbed desert antelope. Fastened onto the waistband of the pants he wore was a perforated nylon laundry bag, intended for use in a washer to protect women's lingerie. Jules wore no identification, and all the manufacturing labels had been cut out of both their clothing. Melodrama abounded and Mickey Spillane would have been impressed! With his small-boned body and slender build, Jules was almost androgynous and unidentifiable anyway.

Jules had been psyching himself up all morning about this business of carrying off one more "road scam" as he sometimes called them. He was certainly not in favor of it, but he knew Roger was twittering with excitement about falling back into their old routine of getting something for nothing and once more proving that their combined intelligence and talent for larceny would allow them to get away with anything. He had to admit that their scheme had been, by this late date, honed to an art form, and they were very, very good at what they did.

However … and it was a big "however" … they had not done a road scam for a long time, and the poor condition of Roger's legs the last time, had nearly resulted in their arrest. Roger swore up and down that he could pull it off even better, now that he was bona-fide cripple, and all he needed was the chance to prove it. He intended to do a "Bambi's Mother" act!

Jules had finally agreed to the plan. He'd scoped out the territory and found the perfect place to pull off one last "caper". A tiny grocery store located near one of the developments, and out of the way of mainstream traffic, was the perfect place for their final job. After this he was determined to tell Roger that it was finished. No more! Roger must expend the rest of his efforts into getting well.

They must move off the streets forever, and become honest members of society. They could no longer live on the fringes. They had been given the opportunity to get it right this time, and now it was up to them. Jules hoped he could stick to his guns and not let himself give in to Roger's strong and determined personality. It was time for them both to grow-the-hell up!

Roger Wilson sat on the edge of the bed in his brother's former den. He was wearing blue jeans, white socks and white sneakers. His white tee shirt was freshly laundered, and he wore a bright yellow windbreaker with black and white knit cuffs, waistband and collar. His long brown hair was shampooed to a shining brilliance that gave off a dark chestnut sheen when the light bounced off it, and he was fresh-faced, doe-eyed and clean-shaven. He was wearing his new glasses, the expensive fine-framed things that Jimmy had ordered for him through the hospital, and which enhanced his beautiful eyes, making him look like a gentle geek. He looked about twenty years old, not thirty-five-ish. Across the room, Jules could not take his eyes off him, and Roger knew it.

Jules stood up and came forward. "Are we ready?"

"I sure am, if you are!" Roger's grin showed off a mouthful of even, white teeth. The streets had not ruined his smile one little bit. He gathered his crutches and stood slowly.

"Are you still sure you want to do this?" Jules asked him.

Roger nodded. "Fuckin'-A, man!" He grinned with conspiratorial glee.

It was almost noon now, and Jimmy had already been at work for hours, depending on how early he'd been able to talk Gregg House into getting out of bed. Neither of them had any idea what was going on in Jules' and Roger's heads.

The two young men went out the front door of the Cape Cod. Two steps only. Roger handled them with concentrated deliberation, but with less effort than it would have taken Gregg. Jimmy had offered to install a ramp in back, but they'd both told him it was not necessary, and so it had never materialized. Now they walked together with cautious resolution to the Dodge Shadow, got in, and Jules turned the key in the ignition, letting the little four-cylinder warm up.

It was a beautiful day. It was sunny and warm, and a small breeze wafted in from the South. Fleecy clouds rolled around in the sky. It was Friday, and they would have the entire weekend to snicker and count their stolen money and smile at each other about their swan-song caper. Gregg and Jimmy might be here on Ridge Road together for the weekend also, or they might be at Gregg's place most of the time. Either way, they would never know what their street-wise guests had managed to pull off right under their noses.

Roger's big brother and his best friend were reputed to be two of the most brilliant men in the state of New Jersey. But were they really?

Nah! They were about to be totally outdistanced by two dumb little homeless guys with balls the size of Rhode Island and ambitions overblown enough for aspiring Americal Idol winners!

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Ben Baker swirled the heavy mop in soapy circles around the floor in front of the wood burner stove, and then moved outward along the circle of four old captain's chairs that surrounded it. Four old wooden TV trays that served as sandwich, coffee, donut and goodie tables, rocked precariously on their spindly legs when the mop strings curled around them. Ben was relentless. He left no spot unslopped and no depression in the worn wooden floor unpuddled.

Fridays were slow days at the Neighborhood Store. It was the day when most locals got their weekly paychecks, and the day they did their weekly grocery shopping at the fancy-schmantzy supermarkets down on the Strip. It was the day they paid their bills, went out to a restaurant to eat, went to the Video Store to rent movies for the weekend, and found other ways to unwind from a whirlwind week. That always meant fewer customers who ran out of anything like milk or bread or eggs and had to pay the "boys" a quick visit to pick up a few things. It was the day neighborhood larders were generally replenished.

Fridays were also cleanup and shelf-stocking days for the two men, and they kept themselves busy with pricing items and dusting shelves and working on the books and listening to 1930's-40's-50's music turned up high enough so Ben could hear it okay. If a customer showed up, they would turn down the phonograph, amble over to the counter to wait on him or her, ring up the purchases on the vintage National Cash Register, and then re-up the volume and return to whatever they'd been doing before they were interrupted.

Sometimes on a Friday, one of the neighborhood kids would come in with a different glass bottle. They never muted the music when the kids came in. The kids should be so lucky to hear some of the_ good_ stuff! Ben would fork over the prerequisite two bucks and the kid would go away happy, or else blow the whole amount on candy or ice cream and sodas. Ben was accommodating either way. Most kids were dancing to the music by the time they left anyhow, and that was a _good_ thing!

This particular Friday was no different. They finished their chores around noon and went over to the circle of chairs to have a sandwich, an apple and a can of soda pop. Today was especially humdrum, and they decided to break out the Cuban cigars and kick back for a few minutes of absolute bliss at the end of the meal.

Neither Ben nor Chris saw the two young men drive by in the old green 1987 Dodge Shadow as it cruised slowly past on the street outside their door.

But Ralph "Jingo" Prozetta, age eleven, standing idly across the street … did!

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It always made House nervous to have to lie on a damn gurney with nothing but a flimsy gown clutched over his bare ass and a small sheet haphazardly thrown across his thighs and private parts.

This gurney was flat and hard and plastic and covered with nothing other than a crinkly layer of throwaway synthetic sheeting. His body hated being stretched out flat on a hard surface with nothing beneath his head or back, and no way to ease the tension in his bad leg.

This gurney was narrow with a slight upward curve at the head end, and he had nowhere to place his arms. If he relaxed them, they immediately slid off both sides and hung down without support, and went immediately to sleep as their blood vessels became constricted. If he placed his arms across his abdomen, he still had to clasp both hands together so they wouldn't slide away again. It was not a comfortable place to be in.

They'd brought him back from MRI fifteen minutes ago in spite of protests that he'd undergone one of the damned things less than three months before. His complaints had fallen on deaf ears, however, when Lyons looked at him in exaggerated patience over the rims of his glasses and announced that the last one had been done long_ before_ he'd tried to stretch his medial collateral ligament from here to Hoboken!

Lyons had left him lying there, pissed off at the world, and gone wandering around somewhere in search of some kind of medication he had not even bothered to tell House about.

Norm had done everything House had expected him to do as soon as he'd arrived in Ortho: poked, prodded, pressed and pummeled his leg and his back until Gregg thought he would climb the walls. He had then ordered House to disrobe and get into the gown, and instructed two orderlies to roll him over to Imaging. Now he'd been left, aching and throbbing, and his Vicodin bottle was in his tan sport jacket … wherever the hell _that_ was … and his cane was hanging on the doorknob all the way across the goddamn room!

Gregg had thought about turning onto his left side and dragging the bad leg overtop the good one. That way he'd at least have a place to rest his arms. But if he did that, the skimpy hospital gown would bunch under him, gap open, and the little handkerchief-size sheet would slide off and land on the floor. He'd be mooning everyone who happened to walk by in the corridor and glance through the nine-inch gap where Norm had left the door part way open.

This day was not going well, and he _hurt_! Cuddy was going to get a piece of his mind for this, and Wilson too. Mainly Wilson! It was his big mouth that had gotten him here, and he did not like it. He could feel his anger attaining critical mass. Unless someone arrived to diffuse it very soon, when it finally exploded there would be detritus all over the room and everyone in it.

He was contemplating getting down from the table and trying to make it to his cane, then find his clothes and get the hell out of there, when the door swung open. Norm Lyons came in with a syringe in one hand and a sterile paper bag of something or other in his far hand. House eyed him suspiciously.

Norm was apologetic, somewhat out of character for him. "Sorry it took so long, Gregg. I'm a little short-handed today." Lyons scrubbed at his forehead for a moment with the back of his wrist, then turned and placed the sterile bag he had in his hand on the counter behind him. "I'm assuming you're experiencing some pain in your leg right now?"

House scowled. "Whatever gave you _that_ idea?"

"Sorry," Lyons repeated. "I'm going to give you an injection … some painkiller … and put your knee in a brace that I _don't_ want you to remove except when you're in the shower. Your MRI shows a transverse tear beginning in your medial meniscus. Your knee has been weakened as the result of the compromised muscle in your thigh. That's why it's so vulnerable. And your back is sore from taking up the slack. I'm surprised you're not experiencing more problems in your shoulder!

"Another major factor working against you is your age. Your body is not as resilient as it once was, and the fact that the remaining muscles in your right leg are severely weakened." Lyons paused for a moment. "Well, the bottom line is … if you don't begin to take the proper precautions with your disability, things could get much worse … if you're following what I'm saying. This is for your own good, Gregg, really."

House said nothing, merely grunted something unintelligible.

Lyons continued without acknowledging the mumbled response. "You can't sit with this leg extended the way you did, however long ago it was, and then go to sleep that way. I know what happened was accidental, but you have to be more careful. Also, pissing around and dancing in the rehab gym a couple weeks ago didn't help. And on top of that, you let the pain escalate until you couldn't stand it anymore. If Jim Wilson hadn't told Lisa Cuddy and Cuddy hadn't told me, God only knows what kind of damage you might have ended up with." Norm shrugged slightly, and his shiny face settled into a pleasant relaxing of his features. "I did hear though, that your little ballet in the gym was really something to see. I wish I'd been there …"

"It wasn't meant to be a 'performance' …"

"Yeah, I know, but you didn't do yourself any favors. I understand … thanks to you … Jim Wilson's little brother is now up and walking on crutches and doing a lot better. But then, I shouldn't believe everything I hear. I know you don't give a shit about people, and your only interest lies in solving the mystery. I understand that stuff, Gregg. _Really!_ I do!" Norm's expression was unreadable. From the bland look on his face, he might have been muttering to himself.

Gregg glared up at his torturer, not altogether certain whether he was being hustled or praised. He bit back a desultory remark only because he was experiencing a sudden admiration for this man who, before this, had never dared rag at the famous Gregory House. What the hell had changed? Was Norm actually trying to credit him for doing something commendable?

In that moment, Lyons rounded on him with the syringe he had in his hand, jammed it down and emptied it into the distended lateral muscle of Gregg's leg.

"OW! Son of a bitch! What'd you do that for?" His voice trailed off as the misery in his leg abated like turning off a water tap. "Ahhhh …"

"Just a couple cc's of Demerol, my friend. It should give you a few pain-free hours." Lyons reached behind him and grasped the sterile bag from the counter. He ripped off the paper and it revealed a soft, navy blue elastic brace with foam rubber cuffs at both ends and a Velcro fastening for tightening or loosening. He pulled it gently over House's foot and ankle and moved it up across the slightly atrophied calf, then settled it about the injured knee joint. He fastened the Velcro tabs and the brace conformed to the exact configurations of House's sore knee.

House watched, quiet for a change. The absence of pain had him taking deep, relaxing breaths, and the tension had left his body for the first time in what seemed like weeks.

Norm Lyons' cool hands moved in concentric circles back down his calf, kneading as they went, spreading across his ankle, fingers digging in carefully at the pressure points of his foot. "You've _got_ to use the brace for now," he explained. "And you must be _careful!_ If you abuse it again, I may have to get in there to do arthroscopic surgery to repair it.

" I know you hate crutches, so if you want to avoid having to use them, I suggest you listen to what I say. You need to guard against injuring your ACL. I'm going to give you anti-inflammatory meds for pain and to give them a chance to bring down the rest of the swelling. The brace will help as it heals, but you'll defeat its purpose if you take it off. Wear it to bed too!

"So!" Lyons looked over the tops of his glasses again and directly into the snappish blue eyes. "If you want to avoid surgery and a very uncomfortable leg brace, and probably crutches or a wheelchair, I suggest you listen to me."

House nodded, a quick downward thrust of his chin. "Looks like I've got no choice."

Norm grinned. "I thought I just said that!"

House sat up and threw his legs over the side of the gurney. "Give me a hand down from here!" he said. "And where the hell did you hide my clothes?"

The absence of pain in his leg was almost as cool as a vacation in Alaska!

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232


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29 "Street Scam"

Jules LeBeque drove the Shadow down the quiet, maple-lined suburban streets, past the little Neighborhood Store, making a circle encompassing eight or ten city blocks. This way they would pass by the same location infrequently enough to keep anyone who happened to notice them from becoming suspicious. Jules had removed his headband and Roger had taken off his bright yellow windbreaker. They both wore New York Yankees baseball hats. By the time they'd passed the store for the fourth time in an hour, they were both familiar with the outside layout, and were pretty sure of at least part of what it looked like inside. Roger's crutches were out of sight on the floor of the back seat. The two of them, at most, resembled two young guys who were lost on a street where a lot of the houses looked pretty much alike.

"You see how the door opens right level with the sidewalk?" Jules was saying, not really expecting an answer. Of course Roger had noticed. He never missed a trick.

"The door opens in," Roger commented in return. "Just a regular door … turn the knob and go inside. I don't have to worry about some heavy glass thing that'll push back at me and throw me off balance. Although that might have its advantages!" He grinned, and Jules realized his partner was thinking out loud, considering all the contingencies, all the pitfalls, all the exquisitely enticing hidden dangers.

"Yeah, but I'm going to be opening the door for you anyway … you know … just a courtesy from one stranger to another. 'Looking out for the cripple,' like Gregg says to Jimmy all the time."

"Yeah, I know, and that'll work. Gregg's a sarcastic bastard, isn't he?" Roger was laughing deep in his throat at the thought. "Some day Jimmy is gonna smack him right up alongside the head."

"Oh yeah … right! When hell freezes over! Gregg's the _last _person Jimmy would ever hit!"

Smiling indulgently, Jules turned the corner onto the next street and pulled the Shadow over to the curb. "The Citibus comes along this way every hour. You need to get out now, and go sit down on the bench across the street. I've got to get the car out of here and stash it, and then double back in time to make it to the store the same time you do. Be careful walking … don't rush it … and if anything starts to look the least bit funky, or if you think you can't make it, just sit down on the curb. If you're not headed for the store when I catch up with you, I'll know something is wrong and I'll get back to the car and come pick you up. Okay?"

"That's the plan, bro!" Roger said. "You've been saying the same words in the same way in the same voice every time we do this … forever … except for the part about the curb! I think I got it by now. And don't worry about me. Like Gregg says: 'I'm fine!'" He pulled the yellow windbreaker back over his shoulders and removed the baseball cap.

Jules removed his cap also, and replaced the white headband. He reached into the back for the crutches. Handed them over. "See you soon," he said as Roger opened the car door, placed the crutches beneath his arms and started across the street.

Jules kept a keen eye on his lover until Roger was safe on the other side, then pulled away from the curb and made a right turn at the next corner. Roger sat down gingerly on the public bench to await the arrival of the next Citibus. Ten minutes … give or take.

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Twenty-five yards down the street from the public bench, a large silver maple tree stood sentinel in the middle of the block. It was old and sturdy and healthy, and had guarded its position for fifty years or more. Its crown was luxurious and thick, its leaves dark-veined and wide. It concealed many abandoned bird nests within its leafy volume, and more than a few which were not abandoned. It had also served as concealment for many neighborhood kids who'd climbed onto its sturdy branches and made themselves comfortable in one of many wide crotches that attached the branches to the trunk, high off the ground, but still privy to whatever went on below.

Straddling one of the lower limbs with his back pressed into the trunk and his feet resting on another branch across from it, Ralph "Jingo" Prozetta watched the goings on in the street below. He saw the car pull over to the curb, saw the conversation taking place between the two men inside, and watched them take off their baseball hats. Then the one in the passenger seat put on a bright yellow windbreaker, and the darker-skinned one who was driving, put on a white terrycloth sweatband. Were they going to park the car and go for a run or something, to the park and back? Not likely. Jingo was sure he'd seen that same car go past Mr. Ben and Mr. Chris's little store a couple of times in the past hour or two. It was older and there weren't many like it on the streets. Puzzled, he continued to watch. For a time, nothing happened.

In his back pocket, Jingo had a small, cruddy, very old medicine bottle that he'd dug up near the river the day before. If he hadn't been instructed by his mom to get his butt home by 3:30 and not fool around after school, he'd have taken the bottle to Mr. Ben then. Two bucks was two bucks, and Jingo was saving for a new fielder's mitt. Those things were pretty dicey nowadays.

Today was a teachers' in-service day and there was no school. He'd got up late, fooled around eating breakfast and kidding with his mom, watching the Cartoon Channel and playing with Chewy the Beagle. Finally, he'd gotten around to heading over to the store to turn the bottle over to Ben Baker. But when he got there, he reached into his back pocket and the bottle wasn't there.

Jingo had said "_Shit!_" seven times, at least. He'd left the damn bottle sit in the middle of the kitchen table. He parked his butt on the curb in front of the store, bitching to himself, listening to the freaky old music the brothers sometimes played on their old phonograph, and watched the same car with the same two guys in it come past at least three times while he sat there mad as heck and called himself all kinds of a jerk.

After awhile, Jingo picked himself up, brushed off the seat of his pants and walked back home to get his bottle. He shoved it into his back pocket and slammed back out the door. He couldn't resist a few more minutes' woolgathering in the notch of the old maple tree before setting out again. He pulled himself up and sat looking around from his lofty perch. That's when he saw that same car pull in right across the street. Of course he watched.

A cold shiver of fascinated aversion skittered down Jingo's eleven-year-old spine when the guy on the passenger side got out of the car and started across the street. He was on crutches! Jingo had had a sprained ankle once. Crutches were ouchy and clumsy and nasty, and he hated them. You couldn't run or jump or climb trees with crutches and a messed-up foot. He could almost feel sympathy pains for this poor guy as he moved slowly, planting the crutches in front of him, and then swinging both legs parallel in a parody of some out-of-sync rhythm, until he was able to plop down on the Citibus bench just down the street.

Jingo scrunched up his face, puzzled. This guy wasn't from the neighborhood. Jingo had never seen him before … or the other guy either. Why would this crippled-up guy get out of a car, for Pete's sake, and go over to wait for a bus in a neighborhood where he didn't live? That didn't quite make sense. Was the driver of the car going someplace the buses didn't? Did the driver have to go to work or something and couldn't take the crippled guy home? Was the crippled guy going to the doctor? If so, why couldn't the guy in the car drive him there? And why the heck had the two guys circled the car around and around the block in front of Mr. Chris and Mr. Ben's little grocery store? The car's driver watched to be sure the crippled guy was seated on the bench okay, then pulled away and made a right turn at the next corner. Jingo watched it out of sight.

He looked at the license plate: CMP-5666. Easy one!

Phooie! He couldn't make his mind fit around the puzzle anymore. So forget it! It was too much for Jingo's pre-pubescent brain to contemplate, although he sat on his tree limb and kept on watching … at least until the bus pulled up. Then he watched the bus driver lower the rear handicap platform so the guy with the crutches could get aboard.

When the bus pulled away, Jingo climbed down from the maple tree and headed in the general direction of the Neighborhood Store once again. One foot in the gutter, one up on the curb, he shuffle-jump-limped along the rest of the block, unconsciously imitating the poor guy who walked with crutches …

Boy, he was sure glad his own foot had got well!

The bus driver let Roger off about half a block away from the store. Roger waved and yelled "thank you!" as the bus pulled away again, and the driver waved back. Down at the end of the block he could see Jules walking up the street, headed for his position. He slowed his pace to a pitiful crawl, timing it so the two of them would approach the store from opposite directions and seem to meet by chance in front of the door. Their timing was meticulous. Roger turned to go inside just as Jules walked abreast of him and turned to go in with him.

Neither man saw the surprised eleven-year-old standing across the tree-lined street. Jingo watched the two of them enter the store, scrunching up his nose in further bewilderment.

Ben and Chris were both at the front counter working on the books. Suddenly, the front door swung open. A handsome dark-skinned young man in a blue jogging suit stood back out of the way to allow a thin white guy in a bright yellow jacket, and walking with crutches, enough room to enter ahead of him.

"Here," they heard the first man say, "I'll hold the door. You go ahead and go on in."

The guy on crutches maneuvered with considerable difficulty through the door and into the room. "Thank you," he said softly. "I appreciate that very much." He was a very handsome man, quite tall of stature, although at first glance his hunched posture made his body appear smaller.

"Sure. Any time," the black guy replied. He turned to the right and walked casually down the far aisle where the bottled sodas were stacked.

The crippled guy hitched off haltingly to the left.

Ben and Chris watched with trepidation. The poor man looked barely strong enough to hold himself upright, let alone make a purchase and have the strength to carry anything of any bulk out of the place.

The black guy had disappeared behind a row of shelves.

Chris turned down the music on the phonograph and called to the crippled guy. "Is there something I can help you with? I'd be happy to get it for you and bring it up front." He moved from behind the counter and followed Roger down one of the aisles.

Behind them, Ben stepped around in front of the counter also, prepared to help if needed.

Their actions were exactly what Roger had been counting on. He turned carefully back in Chris' direction, as though to acknowledge the man's kind offer. He let his body wobble pathetically on the crutches, as though in pain but attempting to conceal it. Roger began to list heavily to the right, up against one of the shelves and not far away from the circle of captain's chairs near the unlit wood burner. He winced, face contorting. The painful twinge in his legs couldn't have been more convenient if it had been written as a movie script.

When Roger lost his battle with gravity and "fainted", his crutches flew off to the side, knocking bottles and jars from the shelves, sending them clattering to the floor. Both old fellows rushed to his side to help. Chris and Ben were both certain he had passed out from the pain he'd tried so hard to hide from prying eyes. When they reached him and knelt down beside him, he had a small box of aspirin tablets clutched in one thin hand.

Jules heard the commotion as he walked toward the front of the store with a bottle of Dr. Pepper in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. He smiled to himself and all his forebodings disappeared in one fell swoop. This was going to be much easier than he had imagined. Both elderly men were in the middle aisle with Roger, hovering over him and trying to help, and Roger was, no doubt, enjoying a massive adrenaline rush and playing the "hurt" role for all it was worth.

Jules set the soda and chips down on the counter and moved quickly to the cash register. The proprietors had been doing paperwork and figuring bank statements, and the till was probably very healthy at the moment. He smiled when he saw the apparent age of the cash register, and shook his head at the old guys' seeming innocence in the face of treachery.

Jules pressed the "No Sale" key very carefully and reached his hand up to quiet the bell that rang when the catch lifted and the old drawer yawned open. He withdrew the laundry bag he'd secured to the waistband of his pants and lifted the cash out of the register's drawer, denomination by denomination. He pushed the drawer closed again, silently, sneaked out from behind the counter and walked calmly out the front door. Roger, of course, would know when to "come to" and look around and allow himself to be helped painfully to his feet …

Across the street, Ralph Prozetta leaned against a tree and watched Jules LeBeque come back out of the Neighborhood Store. The inquisitive, sharp-eyed kid did not miss the lumpy white laundry bag the man held in his hand as he turned left and walked for a few steps, then broke into a lope and disappeared quickly down the block. Jingo scrubbed his hands through his mop of thick black hair, looked both ways, then stepped into the street and crossed to the other side. "Something's rotten in Denmark," he muttered, quoting something he'd often heard his grandfather say.

Jingo entered the store just as Ben and Chris Baker were assisting Roger Wilson into one of the old captain's chairs and placing his crutches gently within easy reach. Jingo walked over to the cash register and leaned on the counter, watching.

The young crippled man was weeping softly into his cupped hands and thanking the old men over and over again for helping him to gather himself. He was in pain, he said, but he would be all right if he could just rest there for a few more moments … the person he'd been looking for in the neighborhood, he'd just learned from another neighbor, had moved and not left a forwarding address … and blah blah blah blah …

Jingo clucked disgustedly in his throat. What a piece of work this little creep was! He was certainly not as innocent or as pained as he looked. He had _not_ talked to anyone in the neighborhood, and he was lying through his teeth!

_What a jackass!_

His story seemed plausible to the Bakers because the one truth the goofball had going for him was the fact that he really _was_ crippled. But what a crappy way to exploit a real disability! He and the black dude were using it to scam two nice old guys so they could rob them blind!

_This shit is gonna stop. Now!_

Clicking his tongue in disgust, Jingo turned away from the front counter and walked boldly across to the circle of chairs. Angrily, he reached out with his circled fingers and snapped Roger Wilson hard on the back of his ear. "You _asshole_!" He was not normally permitted to use such words, but for a single moment, he took great pleasure in it.

Roger jerked his head up at the sudden sting of pain. "Ow! What … ?"

Ben and Chris Baker straightened abruptly and turned on Jingo with exclamations of disbelief. "Ralph Prozetta! What on Earth are you _doing_?"

Jingo pointed at Roger and pulled a comical "pissed-off-kid" face. "Better check your cash register, Mister Chris. I think this twerp's buddy the black dude, just walked out the door with all your money … 'cause he took off like a _bat_ down the street a minute ago!"

Across from him, Roger's eyes widened suddenly in alarm. "That's not true!" His acute distress at what this kid might have seen caused his voice to be much more shrill than he would have liked.

"Is too!" Jingo insisted loudly. "I saw the whole thing … and I can prove it!"

Chris stood planted beside Roger, but Ben was backing away slowly toward the front of the store. The black man was, indeed, no longer there. Ben saw the chips and two-liter soda bottle abandoned on the counter. Eyebrows raised, he hit the "No Sale" lever on the cash register with a long index finger. Wondering if the kid had been watching too many cop shows, he listened as the bell rang loudly. Popping open instantly, the cash drawer was of course, empty!

Roger Wilson sat in the captain's chair, bent almost double, fists clenched impotently and angry beyond measure at being found out by someone who was nothing but a child. His mind whirled, seeking a way to talk his way out of the dilemma he could perceive quickly closing around him. Pathetically he began to rub at his legs as though in great pain, and pretended to let his shoulders shake as though he were silently sobbing.

"I don't know what he's talking about," Roger whined. "I never saw that other man before. He was just someone who was kind enough to hold the door open for me. I don't know who he was or where he went."

Ben Baker leaned over Roger's hunched body and looked reprovingly across at Jingo. "Are you sure about this, kiddo? There's serious consequences for lying about stuff like this." He indicated Roger's thin body. "How could he have anything to do with robbery? He can't barely walk!"

"Ain't nothing wrong with his dirty little mind!" Jingo insisted. "He and the other guy were casing your place all morning. I saw 'em! The black dude has an old green Dodge Shadow, and they were riding around in it. I know, 'cause my big sister's boyfriend has a blue one just like it. They both had Yankees baseball hats on."

"That's not true!" Roger shouted. "What do you want, kid? Do you want your picture in the paper? Maybe even on the front page … 'Our Hero'!" He straightened in the chair, bolder now. They were all standing and staring at him.

Encouraged, he went on. "I have Post Polio Syndrome," he said. "It's hard for me to stand, let alone walk. There's no way I could do anything to rob anybody. Can't you just see me … trying to get away from the scene of a robbery on these things?" He indicated his crutches with a sad sense of irony.

Jingo was not ready to give up, even though he could see with a sinking feeling from the expressions on the faces of Ben and Chris Baker, they were ready to believe the crippled dude.

"_Liar_!" Jingo shouted. "_You lie_! You're his decoy! I saw your buddy let you out of the car over on Madison Street at the bus stop. Then I saw him drive away. The next time I saw you was when I was on my way over here to give a bottle I found to Mister Ben." Jingo reached into his back pocket and retrieved the little medicine bottle. "This! I was right across the street. You got off the bus right down from me, and you headed straight here." Jingo paused long enough to point an accusing finger.

"The other dude was coming the other way right toward you. You even had it figured out so you'd both meet up out front. That's why you came in together and why he held the door for you. You were his _decoy_! He hid the car and walked over!" Jingo stood in front of Roger and looked him in the eyes. "They can ask the bus driver to tell them where he picked you up, and they'll know I'm telling the truth. I even know the license number of the clunker!"

Roger shrank away at that, averting his eyes to the side.

Jingo looked back and forth between Ben and Chris, pleading silently for them to believe him.

"What's the license number, Jingo?" Chris asked calmly.

Jingo never hesitated. "It's CMP-5666! Can we call the cops and get them to look for it? Bet he's somewhere close so he can wait for this jerk to come out and then pick him up. And besides that, he has a white rag bag with all your money in it."

Jingo bent down until he was eye to eye with Roger. "So there, _Schmuck_! You were gonna take off and get with your buddy and go spend my friends' money. You're just a shit-ass rotten cripple, and I hope you both sit on your skinny asses in jail!"

Roger turned his head in the direction of the opposite wall. Ben Baker was writing something in a small notebook. It was over almost before it began. He could not escape, and he could not talk his way out of this one. Sad as it seemed, he and Jules had pulled one little road scam too many.

Even more ironic, the Shadow was registered in Jimmy's name. Now Jimmy would be involved in this mess too, and probably Gregg House and indirectly, everyone at the hospital who had been kind and had tried to help him rehabilitate himself.

For one of the few times in his life, Roger felt shame instead of bitter anger and self-righteous indignation.

In the meantime, Ben Baker was walking to the front of the store, to the telephone at the front wall. "Tell the cops it's a dark green Dodge Shadow," Jingo said. "I don't know what year."

"I will, Jingo," Ben assured him. "And I'm sure sorry for not believing you."

"Me too," said Chris. The man reached out a knobby hand for the little medicine bottle that Jingo still clutched in his fist. "May I? I guess we have to owe you the money for it, since the contents of our change drawer seems to have been temporarily … misplaced. Can we offer you a soda in the meantime?"

Jingo grinned. "Oh _yeah_, man!" He handed the bottle across and walked over to another of the captain's chairs and took himself a seat. He grinned across at Roger with a glint of childish triumph in his eyes. "I guess it's you guys who'll get your pictures in the paper!"

Moving slowly away toward the front of the store, Ben Baker reached for the small brown bottle, and as his brother handed it to him, he grinned privately into the sleeve of his old plaid shirt.

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James Wilson and Gregory House were sitting in Wilson's office.

House was finishing a lengthy diatribe about Wilson hereafter minding his own business and keeping his nose out of House's …

… _and_ how would he like to be left lying on a cold, hard gurney in Orthopedics, freezing his ass off in a skimpy hospital gown and strong hospital air conditioning and having the pain in his leg make him want to strangle the next idiot who came anywhere near him …

… _and_ how paybacks were hell … _and_ how Wilson was indeed going to pay for having been responsible for House having to wear a brace on his knee again … _and_ he was _so _going to pay for the pizza and the beer at House's place tonight …. _and_ he was definitely going to have to wait on House hand and foot because House's leg was now giving him such misery … blah blah blah … except that it wasn't …because Lyons had just given him that shot of Demerol a half hour before …

Wilson's weary eye roll paid mute testament to how closely he was listening to the litany he'd already heard a hundred times before.

The desk phone rang.

Wilson sighed, picked up and answered in formal mode while smiling calmly, sweetly across the room at House's long line of bullshit …

Then the smile disappeared and his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open and he stared directly into House's eyes with a shocked expression that House had very seldom seen there before. House shut up and came to attention.

"_Whaat?" _

House stared at his friend as Wilson's handsome face betrayed a series of emotions that would have done credit to Lawrence Olivier in his heyday, and sudden tears sprang to his beautiful dark eyes and spilled over onto his cheeks. Wilson only listened, stricken, and did not speak at all.

House pushed himself off the couch and limped heavily across the room to place both strong hands on his friend's hunched shoulders.

"_Jimmy …?_"

Finally Wilson did speak. "Yes. I understand. I'll be there within a half hour. I have a friend who will be coming along. He's a colleague and a doctor as well. Yes. Thank you. Goodbye."

He hung up and sat stunned for a moment before twisting in the chair and looking up at House with empty eyes that had lost all their beauty and focus. "Roger and Jules have been arrested for robbery," he said softly. "I have to go to the police station, and I said I was bringing you along. Do you think you're up to it?"

House stared. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when Wilson finally finished the long telephone interlude, but it sure-as-hell wasn't that! "Unhh … yeah … I'm fine. Arrested for robbery? Aw fuck!"

"Couldn't have put it better myself." Wilson smiled wanly, but both his shoulders were suddenly bowed in defeat.

House backed off and remained silent for a change. Damn! Was this the thing he'd been dreading so deeply all these weeks? Was this the premonition which had held him in a strangle hold almost from the moment he'd been introduced to Roger Wilson and Jules LeBeque?

No! No one could have foreseen something like this!

Robbery? How in God's name could Roger Wilson have been a party to a robbery? Even with his continuing rehabilitation, he was still barely able to walk, and still not in full control of the pitiful muscles in his legs.

_Robbery!_

Deep within his dirty black heart, House surprisingly found himself smiling. He could hardly wait to hear the story George and Gracie had to tell about _this_ one! House felt nothing except lousy for the way James Wilson must be hurting right now, but down inside, his own sense of the absurd was running rampant, and he found the entire concept a tad hilarious. He folded his bottom lip between his teeth and kept it that way. He knew it made him look contemplative.

They rode to the police station in the Envoy. Gregg insisted on driving Wilson down there for the police interview. James was too shaky to drive, and the Envoy was equipped with some fancy aftermarket items that accommodated his disability without making a mockery of him. It had hand controls and a mounting platform, and his damaged leg was never an issue. It also had the power of a Sherman tank, the comfort of a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, and the auditory heaven of satellite radio. House and Wilson left the big SUV in one of the handicap parking spots and walked into the Princeton Police Station at 4:20 p.m.

Captain Ernest J. Ford, known by his men as "J-4", was waiting for them in a lobby teeming with purposeful people on critical missions. He was a tall man, dark eyed with dark wavy hair and a dark mustache. He looked familiar in a strange kind of way. Capt. Ford ploughed through the melee like a quarter horse through a herd of cattle, and crossed over to meet them. He escorted them both into a room that was strangely reminiscent of PPTH: the four walls were glass from waist level on up, all of them enclosed by heavy metal blinds.

J-4 appraised House's lameness with an understanding nod and asked if he would be all right for an hour in one of the hard office chairs. House, of course, nodded in the affirmative, hung his cane on the edge of the table and sat down beside Wilson and opposite Ford.

The interview was painful for Wilson, having to listen to the list of charges against his brother and his brother's lover. He also had to swallow the bitter pill of learning abruptly and shockingly that his kid brother was not the person he'd thought him to be. The charges against the two men included robbery, burglary, reckless endangerment, endangering the welfare of a child, petty larceny and car theft, since the Shadow they'd driven was not their own.

Wilson was doubly shocked to find out that this was not the first robbery of its kind to be perpetuated by the two. They had blazed a discernable trail across four states, always with the same scam, the same M. O. They had stolen enough money over the course of a year that they did not have to be homeless. They had chosen that particular lifestyle for the excitement and the danger of the chase. They had also been sly enough and cagy enough to elude arrest over and over again. Only when Roger's childhood disease had eventually resurfaced, had they run into trouble. They had never carried weapons. They had never hurt anyone. But they had stolen thousands of dollars and were facing some serious charges.

And then there was the resourceful eleven-year-old boy who had brought them to their knees (so to speak,) just by being a kid.

"There are other charges pending," Ford told them, "depending on how the Baker Brothers feel about the whole business. We apprehended Jules LeBeque in your car at the end of the 600 block of Madison Street, waiting for your brother to appear so he could pick him up. The kid who discovered the scam is only eleven … but he's probably going to receive a pretty nice reward for being alert enough and having the smarts to add two and two. He's probably also responsible for the fact that there aren't even more charges being filed.

"We recovered all the money LeBeque took from the Baker Brothers' cash register. It was right there on the front seat beside him, inside a nylon laundry bag. And we have the baseball hats the kid said they were wearing. Your car is across town in the police impound lot, and it's gonna cost you fifty bucks to get it out. It's fine; they didn't damage it … and your brother is all right. We had a police department doctor examine him, since he's physically disabled. He found nothing wrong over and above Mr. Wilson's pre-existing handicap.

"The other man … they told me they're life partners … will probably spend some time in jail; how much, I don't know yet. Your brother may receive probation because of his condition … or be sent to a penal rehab institution. He tells me he and his partner have been living with you. Is this true? And … do you wish to arrange bail?"

Wilson shook his head. "It's true. They were living with me until Roger could get back on his feet. But I don't think they deserve bail, Captain." He could feel his anger swiftly mounting. "They got themselves into this, and it should be up to them to get themselves out! I'm not their keeper … just their landlord!" Wilson's voice was tinged with hurt and disappointment. Beside him, Gregory House could hardly believe his ears.

Wilson continued. "I have to talk to them first. I had no idea they had been doing this sort of thing. They're adults, and I trusted them. Roger is my _brother,_ for God's sake!"

J-4 half smiled. He understood the dilemmas in which families found themselves when events such as this one occurred. Dr. House, Wilson's colleague, Ford noticed, sat stiffly in his chair, a frown on his face, looking neither to the left, nor to the right. He would have given a week's pay just to know what was going on in the man's head right now. House's blue eyes were dancing when he looked away from time to time, and he obviously knew more than he was willing to tell.

Ford understood about that also. He hadn't fallen off the turnip truck yesterday. After twenty years on the force, he'd seen what such a shock could do to those close to the perpetrators. When House glanced over at his colleague from time to time, however, the savvy cop could read a fierce pride in Wilson's friend that the older man could not quite hide.

He returned his attention to Dr. Wilson, who, he thought, looked amazingly like his younger sibling. The doctor was deep in thought. "Would you like to go down to see your brother now?"

Wilson nodded and glanced up. "Yes. Please."

"You need to stay up here, Dr. House," Ford cautioned when he saw the other doctor struggle to rise. "Right now, just family. Sorry."

House nodded sourly, but sat back down. His hand went immediately to his leg.

Wilson saw the movement and turned to his friend in concern. "You okay?" He asked quietly.

House nodded in the affirmative and met his colleague's gaze briefly. "Go ahead. I'm fine."

As they walked out of the room, Ford took a deep breath and expelled it softly. He'd seen the look on Wilson's face. And in House's. So! That's how it was. Whatever worked for them! He'd known for many years that the tide of human bonding was at last opening up and leaning oh-so-gradually in the opposite direction from bigotry. One of these days, maybe closets could go back to holding only clothing. He wondered what the institution of marriage might look like a hundred years from now …

Roger and Jules were in adjoining cells. The police doctors had placed Roger in a padded wheelchair, his legs elevated, shoes removed, clothing replaced by an orange coverall uniform. He looked small and vulnerable, just as he had when he was brought in that day to PPTH. His crutches were nowhere to be seen. Further back, in the next cell, Jules had been relieved of his blue jogging suit, his headband and both shoes. He too wore an orange one-piece jumpsuit. He sat slouched on the cell's narrow bunk, back against the wall, knees drawn up against his body.

When James Wilson was escorted into the cellblock, neither man could meet his eyes. There were a couple of hard, straight-back chairs in the corridor across from the cells. Ford told Wilson to take his choice, but warned him not to go near the bars or come within reaching distance of the prisoners. He then turned and walked away. His footfalls echoed hollowly on the concrete passageway, and presently the slam of the outer door announced his departure. Only a uniformed guard remained to stand sentinel in a far corner.

James never thought a member of his family would be referred to as "prisoner". But here he was …

Wilson pulled one of the chairs over and straddled it, folding both arms across the back and lowering his chin onto them, facing his brother and his brother's partner. "Would one of you care to tell me … please … what the _hell_ you thought you were doing?" His voice was low, and it wavered more than he would have liked.

Neither man moved or spoke. The surrounding air in the cellblock felt heavy with silence. Wilson leaned further onto the chair's back and prepared himself for a long wait. If they didn't feel like talking, fine. He knew that any explanation they tried to offer would be nothing more than excuses and bullshit. Meanwhile, he raked them both with a cold, baleful stare of disappointment.

Upstairs, Gregg House pushed himself out of the uncomfortable chair and moved gingerly out of the enclosed room. His muscles were stiff and the brace on his knee was becoming very uncomfortable. He needed to find a men's room where he could sit down, remove his jeans and loosen the Velcro fastening. Judging from the increasing discomfort, he was afraid his knee was beginning to swell, and if it was, he was dumping the damned brace, whether it pissed off Norm Lyons or not.

Most of the weight on his right side was being absorbed by his arm and shoulder again, and they both hurt, along with the muscles in his upper back from the awkward redistribution of his center of gravity. He'd been facing a no-win scenario lately, and he was sick of it. His Vicodin use was increasing and its effectiveness decreasing. He was in need of distraction to get his mind off it before the added pinging of his damaged nerves drove him up a wall. The Demerol was wearing off.

He was back in the busy open area of the station house now, and pacing, shying away from the constant mainstream of police traffic and searching for someone who did not have that blank look of fateful purpose on his or her face. There was dark green doctors-office furniture planted here and there along the walls, obviously for people awaiting results of cases or killing time until their complaints had been resolved.

Looking around for someone to inquire after the location of the men's room, Gregg's eyes fell on a pair of elderly men sitting on an ugly green sofa against one of the walls. One old fellow was light, the other dark. Both were tall and thin and looking to be in their mid-seventies.

House gazed at them and thought: "Hmm … The Fabulous Baker Boys!" He clasped his cane a little tighter and ventured in their direction.

Both men watched his halting approach, and House could read their minds.

_Oh no! Not another crippled one!_

He walked over there anyway. Nodded a preliminary greeting and eased himself down into an ugly green chair that matched the ugly green sofa. Stretched out his leg. Rubbed at his knee and thigh.

"You're the Baker Brothers?"

The men looked at each other for a moment, then glared owlishly up at him. The white- haired one spoke. "We are. May I ask who you are?"

"My name is Dr. Gregory House."

They continued to stare. His name, of course, meant nothing to them. "Are you with the police?" The white-haired one inquired politely. His watery blue eyes were fastened on House's cane and stiff leg.

House shook his head. "No. I'm here with Dr. James Wilson. It was his brother and friend who robbed you. Dr. Wilson's downstairs talking to them now. Have the police returned your money?" He leaned his cane against the chair and began to massage his disagreeable leg with both hands.

The older gentlemen watched him intently. "No, they haven't," said the soft-spoken white-haired one. "They're holding it as evidence for now. Dr. House, are you in pain?"

Gregg nodded. What the hell … he would probably never see them again. "Yeah … I have a bum leg, and right now it hurts like hell. You gentlemen wouldn't happen to know where the men's room is, would you?"

The white-haired one nodded and pointed with a gnarled finger. "Down the hallway to the left … and then make another left. Are you able to walk that far?"

House nodded again, and made to rise. "Yeah … believe it or not, it's better sometimes if I keep moving. I'll be back shortly … if you're still here."

The hell I will … I'd just as soon have Cameron fussing over me than you two guys … 

"I'm sure we will be."

House limped briskly away, keeping close to the wall to keep from butting heads with anyone. He found the rest room and strode inside, panting and sweat-soaked.

In the basement cellblock, James Wilson sat on the hard, straight-backed chair and continued to glare at the two men across from him. Neither one had spoken. Both of them hung their heads in shame … or resentment … he wasn't sure which. One thing he'd decided for certain, however: there would be no bail forthcoming from his bank account! It had taken enough of a hit when he'd allowed himself to grubstake them in the first place. Family was one thing, and compassion was another, but Wilson was finding out that sitting still while his brother and friend committed larceny behind his naïve back was an entirely different form of benevolence!

"I have absolutely no intentions of bailing you guys out, you know!" He stated bluntly. "You can both sit around down here until your balls fall off. If you're not going to talk to me, I'll leave … and I'll see you around." Wilson stood up quickly and swung about to return the chair back against the wall.

"Jimmy …?" 

Roger's voice was beseeching and Wilson steeled himself against it even as he turned slowly around to face him.

"Oh … so the cat didn't steal your tongue after all?"

"Jimmy … you can't just leave us here like this …"

"I can't? Give me a good reason why not!"

"I can't walk …"

"And this is supposed to make a difference … how?"

"Jimmy, you can't just go away and leave us!"

"Oh yes I can, Roger. You're my brother … and I love you. I always will. But you're a big boy now … and if you were well enough to do what you did today, then you're well enough to take the consequences. You both are.

"You know, House was right. He tried to warn me about the two of you very soon after you got here. But I wouldn't listen. Well guess what … I'm listening now!" Wilson finished backing the chair against the wall.

"Guard?"

Slowly, the man ambled forward. "Sir?"

"I'm ready to leave now."

"Yessir."

They both turned toward the door that led away from the dimmed cellblock.

Behind him, Roger's plaintive voice faded with distance. "Jimmy? Jimmy?

"_FUCK YOU, BIG BROTHER! FUCK YOUUU!" _ His escalating anger reverberated through the gloom.

Wilson sighed raggedly as the heavy cellblock door clanged shut behind them. Tears once again burned the corners of his eyes.

But House was waiting for him upstairs …

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249


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30 "Over the Rainbow"

Friday night. House's place. It was late.

They were both in their skivvies.

House stood beside Wilson in the kitchen for awhile, helping him occupy his mind while he cooked a batch of pork chops. (Wilson told House the chops were from kosher pigs, to which House had reacted by laughing and choking and then spraying a mouthful of beer all over the cook).

The late meal was because Wilson needed to take his thoughts off his kid brother by doing something that involved getting his hands very messy and his mind comfortably blanked! Breaded pork chops filled the bill. He didn't feel very Jewish at the moment.

House had peeled a few potatoes while perched atop one of the counter stools, but when his leg started to make him antsy, Wilson chased him into the living room where he now sat noodling around on the piano. A few measures of "Wunderbar" tinkled out of the treble clef.

House was the only person Wilson knew who could carry on a detailed conversation while playing improvisational passages on a piano. But then House was the only person Wilson knew who could do a lot of unusual things! Snark, for instance, accumulated inside his fertile brain and came out his caustic mouth in a never-ending flow of one-liners that would have made Jay Leno covet him as a gag writer. His gifts in the art of healing were nothing less than divine mysticism, although House might have had something to say about that if he knew what Wilson was thinking. He was the closest thing Wilson had ever witnessed to the multi-level mind that Roddenberry had created forty years before with the character of Mr. Spock.

House's voice carried to the kitchen over the lilting strains of "Wunderbar." "Hey Wilson … I've been thinking …"

"Thinking? You? How quaint!" Wilson licked the egg and cracker meal off his fingers, smiling to himself. He turned down the burner under the potatoes. "What?" He had baked corn in the oven and the apartment was a "Mom and Pop's Diner" of enticing aromas.

"I've been known to think once in awhile, y' know … if there's nothing else to keep me amused." Gregg did not miss a beat of the song.

"So tell me!" Their voices echoed back and forth between kitchen and living room, and it put Wilson in mind of an old married couple.

"I'm a little amazed at your decision not to bail your juvenile delinquents out of the hoosegow. Tell me why."

"Really? It _was_ kinda tough, you know. I wanted to protect them, but if I did that, I would just be giving them permission to do something stupid again. Best they know now that I'm not the pushover they thought I was."

"Actually, 'pushover' isn't the word I had in mind. More like … 'Patsy'! But it's none of my business, although I agree with you. I think you're helping them more this way, by making them responsible for their own actions. When are they being arraigned? Did Captain Ford say anything?"

"Probably tomorrow sometime, he said … and I don't even think I'm going. I'm not sure if I trust myself not to interfere. They have to accept what's coming to them … and I'm not hiring an attorney either. Part of the punishment should be putting up with a court-appointed lawyer. Do you think that's too harsh? He _is_ crippled, you know!"

The piano went quiet for a moment, and the volume of House's voice rang true with the surprise of his admission: "So am I, Wilson! So what? I don't steal the livelihood from little old men. If I did, I would expect to pay the consequences."

Wilson turned the heat way down on the pork chops and placed a lid over the pan. He wiped his hands on a tea towel and walked into the living room. Quietly, he sat down beside Gregg on the piano bench and leaned his head gently against his friend's shoulder. "House … I didn't mean to …"

"Shhh! Stop it! I know." Again the long fingers began to dance on the keys and _Wunderbar _continued, an octave higher. "Here's what I'm thinking … You know how the disabled have become militant about their rights … picketing public buildings for accessibility … ramps … doors that don't take a damn SWAT team push open … lowering thresholds … installing elevators where they're needed?"

"Sure. And they have every right to do that."

"Uh huh. Been there, tried that. But I still run into steps. Lots of steps. And I can't do steps. I guess you've noticed." The music continued in the higher register, and _Wunderbar_ was beginning to sound like _Music Box Dancer._

"Yes. So?"

"Cripples want to be treated the same as everybody else. They don't want to be fawned on … pitied … or treated like second-class citizens … or be shied away from, the way Vince Crane shies away from me … but they still have that jealous need for preferential treatment …

"God! It's my biggest pet peeve. 'Don't treat me like a fuckin' cripple! I _know_ I'm a cripple … you don't have to remind me!'"

Gregg stared hard at his hands for a moment as they danced upon the keys, while Wilson held his breath, wondering where this diatribe was going.

"There are some morons with disabilities who still want other people to take pity on them and let them go to the front of the line at the bank … or at the super market … or at the movies."

'_Awww … don't inconvenience the 'fucked up'!'_

"People let us get away with it, Wilson, because they don't want to look like hard-hearted bastards. Poor us! When you said Roger cried to you that he couldn't walk … that's what made me think of the way cripples try to take the easy way out.

"Sometimes they ignore all the things it _really_ takes to be treated like everybody else! Being honest! '_Hey!_ _You in the wheelchair! Go-the-hell to the back of the line! I was here first!' _ I'm just sayin' … we can be a total pain in the _ass_ to everybody else! And we take a perverse pleasure in it sometimes."

"Gregg …"

"No … it's true. Remember what I said to you once … that you'd be surprised what people let me get away with? I play the cripple card, and I get away with murder. Then I walk away and laugh at the dumb jerks that let me do it. Roger's been playing the cripple card with you. Whether he gets away with it anymore … or not … rests entirely in your hands." House rolled his striking blue eyes to meet Wilson's, which in turn searched his face with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

Gregg smiled seductively. "You let me get away with stuff, Jimmy, because I'm so _damned_ handsome and sexy and charming! Roger is a whole other story. He's your _brother_!"

House continued to hold Wilson's rapt gaze with his own, and found Wilson's expression melting, gaze narrowing. His own face scrunched into a fright-mask of smugness as he met the warm brown eyes. He closed his own eyes and sighed, leaning toward Wilson in return, letting his cheek rest lightly on his friend's fine-textured moppy hair.

_Wunderbar _continued to tinkle merrily.

"Yeah, I know, House," Wilson sighed. "Who can resist you? But don't you ever wonder where all this is going? … this 'thing' between us? You've begun to mean more to me than my next breath … but I wonder sometimes if we'll eventually end up destroying each other. It scares the hell out of me." Wilson nuzzled House's shoulder with his chin, pressing closer, hunched upon himself as though the whole beautiful aura that surrounded them might pop like a bubble and he would wake up to find it had all been a dream.

"Yeah," House said. "I do. A few years from now I'll be a burden to you … the same way I'm a burden to myself now. I don't want that. I want a better future than that for you. You're not the only one who's scared. Trust me! I keep thinking 'smoke on the wind!'"

House shifted himself on the piano bench and pushed against Wilson slightly. The song suddenly faded and he dropped his hands into his lap, fingers gravitating instinctively to his thigh.

"Could you give me a second here … sorry … my leg hurts like hell. I need to get my pills."

Wilson sat up straight and looked down at House's leg, against which he'd been pressed for the last ten minutes. "God … I didn't realize …"

House's eyes went closed.He palmed a Vicodin and swallowed it dry. His knee felt like a cement pillar. He had thrown the brace in the trash at the police station. "Isn't supper about ready by now?" Divert attention. Take the conversation somewhere else. He struggled to his feet and grabbed his cane.

By the time Wilson caught up with him, he was in the kitchen, leaning into the side of the refrigerator, eyes clenched shut in pain. He was listing to the left, right foot easing off the floor. Wilson decided on a compromise, avoid the subject for now. He touched House's elbow gently. ouse4's H

"If you get us each a beer, I'll bring supper in to the coffee table. It'll be very fashionable … dinner at ten. Just like out on 'Lon Gyland'!" The joke fell flat, but House had managed to risk another small smile and reach into the fridge to gather two silver bullets in his hand. He headed back to the living room.

They ate their meal in silence. The pork chops and the cheddar potatoes and the sweet corn were delicious. But the mellow part of the evening had fled. Like smoke on the wind.

Replaced by pain and marred with doubt …

They never got to bed until 1:00 a.m.

Gregg talked Wilson out of going home to that big, empty house on Ridge Road. Everything out there lay scattered where the boys had left it, and the dark parts of James' mind inevitably chewed over the events of the day … and chewed over them. He was sure he would be unable sleep at all, but would be fated to sit up all night long and contemplate "what-ifs".

They did kitchen cleanup together, although House was next to useless and Wilson did not expect him to do any of the traipsing back and forth from table to sink, or anything else that had to do with walking around. He did enjoy House's company though. Gregg was in a strange mood, accommodating and sympathetic, and Wilson kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never did.

House sat at the table and scraped plates and put the leftover food into covered refrigerator containers. His long face held that deep and thoughtful look he sometimes assumed when his mind was a thousand miles away. He would ask a question from time to time and listen carefully to Wilson's ruminations on the subject of petty larceny. Then he would go back to that thoughtful look again, but James knew his razor mind was processing every word.

Wilson decided that House's efforts to keep drawing him out, also kept Gregg distanced from his pain, so he let himself reminisce at length about Roger and Tom and himself when they were kids. He found himself smiling happily one or two times when one of his childhood memories would remind House of one of his own … and they would relate the stories, seesawing back and forth in brief, concise sentences.

Later, they sat on the couch with their bare feet on the coffee table, close enough to touch shoulders, while a muted Leno rerun provided the only nightlight to interrupt the darkness. The only sound was the occasional rumble of a car in the street outside, and the pull of their lips on the beer bottles in their hands.

Wilson's warm palm rested very lightly on Gregg's sore knee, still a tad swollen, but less so than before. He was gratified that House allowed him the liberty of casual touch. From time to time the skin of his palm registered the tiny spiking of ruined nerve endings in Gregg's thigh, and he knew it hurt. He also knew it was only a matter of time before Gregg asked him for the Vicodin bottle that sat on the end table at his elbow.

That happened five minutes later …

They went to bed together in silence and drew up the covers, also in silence. Tonight it was House who spooned his lean body against Wilson's back in gentle support, cupping the younger man's shoulder with his hand and allowing his warm breath to whisper against Wilson's neck. Neither man voiced further concerns about the uncertain future of Roger and Jules; nor their own, for that matter. Both understood that the unspoken tension between them was a vast, uncharted wilderness that stretched ahead, and it was too fragile an environment to bear much scrutiny right then.

"I love you," Wilson whispered, as though if spoken too loudly, the hand of fate would whisk it away. Smoke on the wind. The reminders were everywhere.

"I know," House whispered in return. "And I love you. Almost from the day we met …"

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The telephone rang at 8:00 a.m. while they were still in bed. It was on Gregg's side. He coughed thickly with the cottony throat of morning mouth and then grunted something incoherent into the receiver. Roused by the disturbance, Wilson listened for a moment, instantly awake, reached across and took the instrument from Gregg's hand.

The caller was Captain Ford of the Princeton Police Department, and Wilson was not at all surprised. He had given Gregg's number to the police also.

"Your brother is asking for you," the man said. "I don't ordinarily do this stuff, but he'd like you to come downtown for his arraignment. Says he and LeBeque have a lot of apologies to make. They need to talk to you and Dr. House."

Wilson frowned. "How very kind of him to think of me!" He snorted sarcastically. "He's a little late."

"Well … yeah …" Ford continued. "What do you want me to tell him?"

Wilson paused at length, but House was awake and listening to the conversation. "Tell him we'll be down," he said softly. "You'll never forgive yourself if you don't. Ask him what time."

Wilson stared at the ceiling for a moment, eyes wide, as though seeking guidance, but he knew House was right. "What time is the arraignment?"

"They're both scheduled for eleven o'clock. We don't normally do this on Saturdays, but our accommodation for prisoners in wheelchairs is very limited right now. It won't take long. They've waived counsel, and there are just the two witnesses other than the Bakers. There were no weapons involved, so it's petty larceny. Your brother will get a fine and community service. LeBeque will probably pull probation. They're going to petition the court to allow them to relocate to Trenton, so they should be out of your hair before too long."

Wilson blinked. "Really?"

"Yes sir. Really. We'll see you at eleven then?"

"Yes. Thank you." Wilson handed the phone back to Gregg, who reached over to hang it up. Wilson touched Gregg's arm briefly. "Hey," he whispered, "thanks."

House pulled a goofy face and smirked. "Yeah … you're welcome. Now you can tell everybody you have an outlaw brother."

Wilson looked over at Gregg and met the other man's eyes. "When hell freezes over!" He grumbled.

"Do you think your parents came to their rescue?"

Wilson shook his head. "Probably not … but Tom may have …"

"Yeah, I forgot about him. Hand me my pills, please."

Wilson's eyes widened again. "Leg acting up?"

"Nah … just wants to know where the hell its breakfast is …"

"Don't keep it waiting."

They drove the Pacifica to the arraignment, which took place in judge's chambers at the courthouse.

Wilson had been right … his brother Tom was there, seated with Roger in the wheelchair and Jules right beside him. Both young men were back in their street clothing, and Roger's crutches were propped across his knees. When Gregg and James walked in, both hung their heads, and Wilson wondered whether his brother would refuse to talk to him again. Never mind that he had "wanted to apologize …"

House and Wilson walked over to them and sat down, nodding in the meantime to the Bakers, Captain Ford, the bright-eyed eleven-year-old they'd heard so much about, and a few people they'd never seen before.

Tom Wilson smiled and reached out to hug his brother and shake Gregg's hand. He was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-forties, a little shorter than James, and was already graying at the temples even more than House.

When Roger still did not speak, Tom reached across and cuffed him on the back of the head. "Remember your goddamn manners, twerp!" He whispered into Roger's ear.

Roger's head came up as though the gesture had jump-started his brain. "I'm sorry, Jimmy … I don't know where the hell my head was. Pulling this shit someplace where you'd never hear about it is one thing. But doing it here, this close to home … was … unforgivable. It wasn't Jules' idea. It was mine. I talked him into it."

Wilson scowled angrily. "Are you trying to say that all the other people you scammed and hurt don't count because they weren't around here? You talk like an idiot. And it makes Jules innocent because it was all your idea? You're both going to have to make restitution, and I hope the judge throws the book at you!"

"Jimmy, I'm sorry! We did it for the thrills, not the money!"

"You can get thrills going to an amusement park and riding the roller coaster!" Wilson felt himself heating up beneath the collar of his McGill University sweatshirt. "I never heard anything so stupid in my life." He backed away and resumed his seat beside House. Gregg looked at him with an unreadable expression and refrained from comment.

The arraignment and hearing proceeded swiftly. The Citibus driver testified to the fact that he had picked Roger up in the residential neighborhood at Madison Street and left him out a half block from the Neighborhood Store.

The Baker Brothers testified that both Roger and Jules had entered the store together, but acted like strangers who had met only by chance.

When Ralph "Jingo" Prozetta got up from the bench where he'd been sitting between his parents, and took the witness chair, the room came alive with avid attention..

"I was up in the tree," he began. "The big maple tree in front of my house. I climb up there a lot. I got this old bottle in my pocket that I was gonna sell to Mr. Ben … 'cause he pays all us kids for old bottles. Anyhow, I'm up there lookin' around … an' this old car pulls over to the curb across from me. I notice the car because Arnie … my sister's boyfriend … has a blue one just like it.

"There's two guys inside, and it's like they're arguing or something. They both got these Yankees baseball hats on … an' I think to myself that I saw these guys before … like earlier … driving around the neighborhood the whole morning … back an' forth an' back an' forth. So I see them take the hats off. Then one of 'em gets out, and I'm thinkin' … 'jeeze! He's on crutches! … and he goes over to the Citibus bench an' sits down. An' the dude in the car leaves.

"And I'm thinkin' … wow! …like … why didn't the dude in the car take him where he was going instead of dumping him at the bus stop? What a creep! So anyhow, he gets on the bus and the bus pulls out.

"I climb down from the tree and take off for Mister Ben's store to show him the bottle. I take a shortcut down the alleyways and get there just as the crippled guy gets off the bus. What the … ? So I hide an' watch. The crippled guy's legs are bent kinda funny, an' it looks like it really hurts him to walk. I felt kinda sorry for him.

"And then I look down the street the other way, and the other guy that was in the car is walkin' up the sidewalk in the other direction, and it looks like they're gonna meet right about in front of the store … an' I'm thinkin' … Whaat? An' they do, an' they pretend like they don't know each other, and the black guy holds the door for the crippled guy an' they both go inside.

"An' I'm thinkin' … 'Whoa! That's nuts!' So they're in there, an' I keep watchin' … and after awhile the second dude … the black one … comes out of the store and looks around. He's got this white bag in his hand, and it's lumpy and something with corners makes parts of the bag stick out … and I'm wondering if it's money … and about that time he takes off running … back down the block the way he came … an' I got this feeling that somethin' aint right!

"I go across the street and walk inside the store, an' the crippled guy is all hunched up in one of the aisles … and it looks like he's cryin' … and Mr. Chris helps him to a chair … but I don't believe his crap for a minute!

"I can see the cash register is set on NO SALE … so I go over an' whack the crippled dude on the ear and call him a jerk … or somethin' like that. An' I tell Mr. Chris an' Mr. Ben that the black dude that's with this guy just robbed 'em blind. Mr. Chris an' Mr. Ben don't believe me at first, but Mr. Ben goes up to check the register … an' it's empty.

"The crippled dude gets all pissed off, but by then they know he's lying, an' they call the cops.

"The cops find the car that the black dude is in, 'cause he's waiting for the crippled dude. I told 'em the kinda car it was and the color … and the license number, see? … 'cause I like to memorize numbers …an' I guess they both 'fessed up after that …

"'Cause here we are …"

Jingo finally took a deep breath and looked up at the judge who was smiling broadly. Actually, everyone in the room seemed to be smiling broadly, except for Roger and Jules, whose heads were down, their eyes averted.

The judge shook her head appreciatively and banged the gavel on her desk with a crash. "I will give this case serious thought," she said. "We are adjourned until one o'clock this afternoon when we will reconvene for the results of my findings." She rose, turned and left the room by a back door.

It was 11:30 p.m. A bailiff appeared to return Jules and Roger to their cells.

When the gavel banged again, it was exactly 1:00 p.m.

"This hearing will come to order!"

xxxxxxxx

"_Guilty!" _

No surprise.

Neither one spoke when the word came down. Jules pulled a six-month sentence for doing the actual robbery. He got probation and 500 hours of community service, working with the highway cleanup crew in Trenton, New Jersey. Roger got probation and three hundred hours community service working in Emergency 911 at the police station in Trenton.

Roger and Jules would occupy the remodeled basement apartment in the home of newspaper reporter-photographer, Thomas Wilson and his wife, Suzanne of Trenton, and everybody knew you didn't mess with news reporters! They would receive the "princely" sum of twenty dollars per man, per month from their "princely" salaries until they had made complete restitution to everyone they had scammed. After that they would find gainful employment in the community and pay rent like everyone else … or they could move out.

Captain Ford maintained that they would both be old and gray by that time! Benjamin and Christopher Baker agreed with grins on their faces as their stolen money was returned to them with thanks.

The judge made it perfectly clear that local municipalities would be alerted to the nature of Wilson and LeBeque's scams, and actions to be taken if such a thing ever happened again. The boys both assured the judge … and the Baker brothers … that it would not.

The judge said very sternly that she certainly hoped not!

Ben paid Jingo Prozetta $200.00 for the little "medicine" bottle … which turned out to be a promotional bottle from 1999 that had once been filled with vanilla extract. Ben decided he'd got the better part of the bargain. The little brown bottle found a home on top of the brand new digital cash register at the Neighborhood Store.

Jingo got his fielder's mitt. _And_ the most expensive bike on the rack at Ace Hardware!

Gregg and James said their 'goodbyes' to Tom and Roger and Jules in the parking lot of Appleby's where they had all stopped for a late lunch. There were tearful resolutions and tearful apologies and tearful promises. Tom and his charges were on the road back to Trenton by 3:30 p.m. Some of the "Wilson compassion" had been restored.

House looked at his best friend over the roof of the Pacifica, wracking his brain for something with which to distract James Wilson from the stressful day. "Wanna go over to the impound lot and see if we can liberate your Sundance? I think someone is probably around over there twenty-four-seven."

Wilson glared at him for a moment, then grinned. _"Shadow!"_ He said. "Dodge Shadow … not Sundance. Yeah, let's!"

Gregg pulled another goofy face. "Sundance … Shadow … to-may-to … to-mah-to … same difference! Let's go!"

"Are you sure you can …"

"_Wil-son_?"

"Alright already … you can!"

Wilson paid the fifty bucks and liberated the Shadow. He wondered what the hell he was going to do with it. Tom did not want it. Those boys would not be driving _anywhere_ for quite some time!

He and House drove to the place on Ridge Road and Wilson parked the little car in its usual spot at the edge of the driveway. They went into the house through the garage, and Wilson looked around sadly for a moment. "So this is where it all ends. And I thought that getting him back after all this time, would be one of the most wonderful things in the world …"

House rounded on him and placed a hand firmlyon a slumped shoulder. "It was, Wilson! It was, and it is. This is nothing more than a bump in the road … a pothole … a whitewashed rock that somebody painted to look like a snowball. It won't melt away, but it shouldn't blow a hole in your oil pan either."

"House, sometimes your analogies blow me away!"

"That's the idea, dummy. I'd like to blow you too … not necessarily away!"

They embraced, laughing, and Wilson did not take the bait. They held each other without further words until they had both begun to relax and put the past several hours into perspective. The last few months had been a strain on both of them, and now all the hoopla was over. They'd hit the brick wall and been dropped dead in their tracks. The upside was that they were relieved of the tension and severed from the trauma. Like a tree whose trunk had been split by lightning, they were past the immediate shock and waiting to see which half might be the first to fall, or if both might weather the storm.

Where would the vagaries of life lead them now? Where could it go, and what would become of their friendship … or whatever it was? Neither man was willing to speculate, so they allowed an invisible wall to rise. Were they now together inside a force field? Or would there be an impenetrable barrier preventing their love from becoming permanent?

"Are you okay?" House finally asked.

"That's _my_ line!" Wilson teased. "I'm not okay now, but I will be. I think I could stand a beer. How about you?"

House smiled tiredly and reached for a Vicodin. "I thought you'd never ask."

"I saw in the TV Guide there's a night race tonight."

"Oh yeah? What time? Where?"

"An hour from now. Lowe's, in Charlotte. You want to watch it?"

"Maybe, if you watch it with me."

"Oh joy! I _love_ watching guys in souped-up cars on a 200-mile-an-hour merry-go-round of left turns … and everybody trying to run everybody else into a wall."

"Wilson, you say the same damn thing to me every time! If you didn't want me to watch it, why'd you mention it? The thing is, we could watch it in the den … if you move the TV in there … and change the bed …"

"You don't ask for much, do you?"

"I'll make the popcorn …"

"You're too generous."

"That's because I care."

"Go make the freakin' popcorn!"

They watched the race originating from Lowe's Motor Speedway in Charlotte, North Carolina. They got to see Tony Stewart knock Kyle Busch into the infield and Jeff Gordon into the wall. Then they saw Elliot Sadler run Tony into the wall so hard that the #20 Chevy looked like an accordion. They laughed when Tony looked mad as hell.

They saw twelve cautions and five pileups. They saw Mark Martin get the Lucky Dog not once, but twice, and Kevin Harvick get fined for driving too fast down pit row.

The only thing they did not see was Carl Edwards take the checkered flag and burn some rubber, and then almost knock his block off doing a summersault from the net-side window of his car …

Wilson woke up at three in the morning and turned off the TV. He pulled the covers up over Gregg House and snuggled carefully under them close against Gregg's side.

The day hadn't been _all_ bad!

xxxxxxxxx

259


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31 "All Over But the Shoutin'!"

Troops rallied around Wilson in a most generous manner when he returned to work at the hospital Monday morning, gathering in anxious clumps like autograph hounds around the newest American Idol. Sometimes, House thought, James couldn't win for losing. He always found himself the center of attention whether he wanted to be or not. Gregg had sat in his own office and watched a steady stream of inquisitive sympathizers parade in and out of Wilson's. He hoped his friend was braced well enough to receive them, because … sorry … he had no intention of joining the parade himself, and he was sure Wilson knew his reasons why.

Maria Colby, Nancy Franklin, Bill Travis and The Ducklings were already waiting near his door when he and Jimmy turned the corner from the elevator and walked up the hallway. Gregg had nodded briefly by way of greeting, and then ducked through his door with a whispered: "Must've hit the papers! And TV! Big time! Good luck!" into Wilson's ear.

James' sarcastic reply: "Yeah, guess it must've! Thanks a lot!" That had been his only comment about the well wishers lined up like worker ants, who strode past Gregg's door, headed for his own. The flow of curious humanity gathering under the guise of empathic concern cast nary a glance in his direction on the way to "console" Wilson about the actions of his wayward brother.

Inwardly, House cringed at the thought of half the Rehab staff and more than half of the Oncology Department standing around figuratively holding James' hand and wiping James' tears. James himself, always kind and benevolent and patient, would tell everyone over and over that "Roger-made-his-own-bed-and-now-he-must-lie-in-it". He would assure them that he was indeed all right, taking things a day at a time, and telling everyone "thank you for your concern", without actually giving out any information.

House could feel the icy shivers of "blech!" run up and down his spine in revulsion. Every time he looked out across his balcony, he could see heads bobbing in the office next door, and he knew he had no capacity to put up with such crap. He'd had to deal with some of it right after his infarction, because even those of his colleagues who couldn't stand his ass on a daily basis, still would not have wished such a twist of fate upon anyone.

For a short time, while still under the influence of stiff medications, he'd acknowledged their awkward well-wishings in his own awkward manner. Later, when his pain had subsided a little from its peak, he had told them all to fuck off and let him the hell alone!

He snickered to himself at the thought of James Wilson doing anything like that! _Aint gonna happen, Charlie!_

As the day wore on, the constant influx of supporters began to wane a little, but it never diminished completely. Hourly employees arrived during their breaks and their lunch hours. Professional people stopped to commiserate during lulls in the day's action. But it seemed that everybody in the whole damn place wanted to leave the popular Dr. Wilson with a few kind words of support and encouragement … and ask unsubtle questions about Roger's fall from grace.

Gregg House witnessed it all with a tightly controlled aura of smug indifference. He had purposely lost count of the coy pecks on the cheek James received from the bevy of sweet young things who paraded across his doorstep. Instead, he bided his time in confident neutrality, assured that he was the one person James would choose to go home with that evening, and whose bed he would certainly choose to occupy that night.

After lunch, House became bored with the continuous procession of bodies. He rode down to the lobby to seek out a vending machine. There, with the cascading chink of quarters through the candy machine mechanism, he purchased a Snickers bar the size of New York, and a big bottle of Mountain Dew.

He sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the clinic's waiting room to munch on the candy bar and slurp the soda, rubbing shoulders with the snifflers and the hypochondriacs while they glared at him in resentful silence. He then went to the men's room to wash up. Later, he lurked around the corner near Cuddy's office and peeked through the windows. She was not there. He would have bet on it. Upstairs holding Wilson's hand, no doubt, just like everyone else.

Gregory House then approached the front desk and signed himself in for clinic duty for the remainder of the afternoon, to the continued amazement of Evil Nurse Brenda. He went into exam room one, parked his cane in the corner and sterilized his hands at the tiny sink. He popped a Vicodin, eased himself down on the wheeled stool and waited a few minutes for his leg to calm down and prepare himself mentally for his first customer.

The worst case of the afternoon was a construction worker with an ingrown great toenail. The man had tried to ignore the pain to the point of his toe turning purple and the affected area becoming crowned with a well of pus. Disgusted, Gregg jabbed a needle full of Novocaine into the base of the toe while the construction worker wailed in pain. He then drained the pus and dug out the imbedded nail, letting the blood flow freely until it ran red again.

He gave the guy a shot of antibiotics and a vial of pills, wrapped the toe, fitted the man with a paper slipper and sent him on his way, limping awkwardly on a foot deadened by the powerful anesthetic. House grinned to himself, pulled off his rubber gloves and discarded them, washed his hands again, and shouted out the door for the next name on the list.

At 4:30 p.m. clinic hours were over. Gregg House walked out of exam room one, and wearing a cloak of heroic benevolence as though it was Superman's cape, limped over and signed out at the desk and then turned toward the elevator. His leg was flaring up again. Three and a half hours on his feet did that sometimes. He would wait for Wilson upstairs in his own office.

James was not able to tear loose from the final group of lingerers until after 5:30 p.m. Disheveled and undone, lab-coatless, sleeves rolled to his elbows and tie askew, he wandered slowly into House's office at 5:45 with his brief case hanging off his shoulder and his suit coat dangling in limp disarray from the opposite hand. His tawny hair was sweated against his head and his eyes vacant, their luster dulled.

"Sit down before you fall down!" Gregg scolded.

"That's my line," Wilson groaned, but he did not protest. He folded himself into the chair across from House and let his gaze stray upward and out the window. "What a long, lousy day!"

"I noticed." They sat quietly, sharing the silence in comfortable symbiosis, grateful to be back in each other's company at last. Gregg watched his friend with mounting concern.

Finally, Wilson stood up with a painful groan. "They meant well, I think, but if one more person tells me how sorry they are about what happened, I think I'll scream! Let's get the hell out of here, House! My head is spinning and my ears are ringing. I feel like I've been run over by a Mack truck. Every muscle hurts. We got any beer left?"

"Yep … and I'm ready whenever you are. Lead on."

Wilson drove cautiously all the way to House's place and parked the Pacifica next to the big burgundy Envoy. They disembarked without talking, got into the elevator and rode up to ground level. Gregg jangled his keys in his hand and had the door open before poor Wilson could even concentrate enough to step inside.

They dropped their combined paraphernalia just inside the entry door, and Wilson plodded wearily to the couch. He sat down, stretched his neck slowly in a circular motion, butted both knees against the edge of the coffee table and allowed his body to bunch forward wearily. Still they did not speak, but House, in an unusual display of support, walked up behind Wilson and placed his hands lightly on his friend's shoulders.

Gently, Gregg began to massage the tense muscles with his strong fingers, working the man's shoulder blades with this thumbs and pressing toward the center and down along Wilson's spinal column. Wilson's body rode the sensations with grunts of pain and pleasure. His torso undulated with the movement of Gregg's strong hands on his back as though he were a rag doll in the grip of a child.

Gregg kept it up for ten minutes or more, leaning into it with enthusiasm until his leg began to clench painfully. Wilson had not made a voluntary move, or spoken aloud. His head was bent forward, his chin bowed nearly to his chest. When Gregg finally had to ease up long enough to lift his weight off his right side, his hands detected a slight shift in Wilson's posture below him. He paused.

For a moment, House did not understand. He allowed the fingers of his left hand to trail across Wilson's shoulders as he grasped the back of the couch with the right in order to regain balance.

Then he knew.

Gregg felt the sobs, rather than heard them. Wilson was doing his best to contain his misery and not let it show. He couldn't.

James Wilson's rampaging emotions had caught up with him at last. Today's events had been the final straw.

House was at a loss what to do for Wilson, just as Wilson was suddenly at a loss to handle his sorrow and disillusionment. He had experienced a joyous reunion with the beloved brother he had thought to be dead; had sacrificed his bank account, his home, his time, his heart and his soul, only to be betrayed and taken advantage of. Roger was a changed person, and a lot of the changes were not good.

Now Roger was gone as though he had never been there; moved on to the next level without a backward glance and distanced himself yet again! Trenton was close by, of course, but the sense of finality seemed to shout: "goodbye forever!" Wilson must be wondering what Roger and Jules had in store for Tom and Suzanne.

Today the whole emotional mess had smashed down on James' already overburdened shoulders like a waterfall, and he had finally bent beneath its weight.

Gregory House did not know what he could possibly to do ease the guilt and the self-recrimination; to assure this most loved friend that something good _had_ to come out of this! Surely James' sacrifices had not been in vain. Roger was, after all, getting better physically.

Gregg's initial assessment of Jules LeBeque as the only bad guy had been faulty. The young men were both jerks! But Jules was bearing the brunt of punishment. He had been the one caught with stolen money, and he was the one taking the fall for Roger's insatiable thirst for danger. The whole mess was breaking James Wilson's heart, and, consequently, Gregg's.

Lions ten … Christians zero. Something like that!

House felt the need to gather Wilson in and hold on tight, as Wilson had held him tight weeks before. He was uncertain how to do this, or how to throw open his long-shackled heart and offer refuge and sanctuary to another human being. This was something entirely different from the way they had embraced one another in bed. There were iron locks on Gregg's caged emotions, and he had to set them free for good if he was going to be of any help to Wilson. He was not certain if he had that ability any longer. He was petrified of being hurt again. His trust issues were suddenly fragile and vulnerable, overwrought with emotions, which had become extremely foreign to him. He took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly backed away from the safe barrier of the couch that separated them.

House almost made it around the other end to sit down by Wilson's side. Almost! His leg seized when he tried to put weight on it and it gave way beneath him. This time the cane was next to useless to hold him steady. He crumpled downward in a heap with a strangled cry of distress, grabbing at the edge of the coffee table and the couch cushions in an attempt to break his fall. His hands, damp with Wilson's perspiration, slipped. Both Gregg's knees hit the floor hard, and the shock waves radiated immediately to the injured knee and the damaged nerves.

James Wilson cried out in alarm and made an instinctive grab for House's shoulders. He barely managed to keep him from cracking his head on the end of the coffee table. They landed on the floor in a tangled heap, sending the coffee table skidding into the middle of the room, magazines and TV remotes flying like guided missiles. They clutched at each other wildly, like panicked passengers on a plane going down in flames.

At that moment, something inside both men snapped.

Suddenly they were clutching at one another, limbs entwined, gasping, teeth clenched against their combined pain: physical, mental and spiritual. All the frustration, fear, exhaustion and anger coalesced in a single instant and struck them both at their most vulnerable moment like a bolt of lightning.

The kiss that descended from the results of their agony was brutal and full of wanton outrage and feral passion. They were like two beasts in rut, ragged, fatigued and bloodied. Yet, both men were desperate to find respite from instincts that drove them both to primitive fury. Fight or flight. Desperation!

It was certainly not love.

They grappled, flailing wildly at each other, biting at each other's lips with sharp teeth, breaths guttural and deep in their throats. The rage against circumstances that neither was able to control numbed their sensibilities and heightened their nervous systems until the only way they could cope with the frustration and pain, was to resort to violence.

Base instincts. Blind fury.

Inflict exquisite pain on whatever came near! House drew back, out of control, and furled a massive right hand, aiming his fist in the direction of Wilson's face, wanting nothing more than just to smash it until it bled. He could feel the intense desire to feed this madness that consumed him with brutality and force, and numb the agony for both of them that gripped his senses in an ever-tightening vise.

Wilson met the movement with a curled fist of his own; indulging a mad instinct to inflict pain somewhere outside his own being in an attempt to mask the intolerable regret at his failure to help his brother. He pulled back his arm with the full intention of causing more injury and pain to the one man he loved more than any sense of reason could dictate.

Their eyes met briefly just before the instant of impact; wild and glittering, lips pulled back from their teeth. Two wolverines moving in for the kill! The flare of temporary insanity sparked across between them and sent a message of horrified realization. The incident had lasted no more than a brief span of seconds, but it had felt like a lifetime.

It extinguished itself as suddenly as it had begun. Then it was over and the icy dread of what they might have done to each other left them limp and frightened and physically drained.

They lay stunned, overwhelmed and full of shame. Then they clung to each other, exhausted, spent. Their lips met again. This time hungry … needy … ashamed.

Wilson collected himself first. He pulled away from the warmth of House's searching mouth, still riding rough on his lips, and buried his face in the crook between House's neck and shoulder.

"Don't!" James whispered. "Please don't!"

House let go and backed off as his sanity and his pain returned with a crash.

Still unreasonably angry, and not even sure why, House cringed away from the massive hurt he had just inflicted upon his bad leg, and rolled away from Wilson to curl into a ball in a spot across the floor near the piano. Grunting with the effort of suppressing a scream, he bent double over his leg and grasped it protectively between both hands. Cursing deep in his throat, House rocked his body back and forth, trying to will the pain away. He knew the action was useless even as he indulged himself, but he was not thinking clearly at the moment.

Weeping and frightened, Wilson crawled after him. Managed to dig the bottle of Vicodin out of his friend's right jacket pocket, threw off the lid and held two of the white pills to Gregg's lips.

House swallowed convulsively as all his remaining strength fled. Wilson had always responded to his open hostility with kindness, and there was no way he could fight that. He could not handle his humiliation. He bit down on his lip and suppressed another groan. His anger was directed at cruel fate, not at Wilson, but Wilson was handy.

"I'm sorry, Jimmy. So _fucking_ sorry! I think I'm losing my mind!"

Wilson did not answer, but lay there motionless and stared blankly into the stricken face.

When Gregg's pain finally subsided to more manageable levels, he let himself relax rigid muscles and rolled over the rest of the way to lie flat on his back on the hard wooden floor. His legs were pointed in the direction of the skewed coffee table and his head was under the piano bench. James Wilson sat Indian-fashion as close to Gregg's left shoulder as he could manage. James' face was wet and shining and tears ran unchecked down his face. As Gregg looked up at him, Wilson lifted his hand and placed it gently on House's temple, running his fingers through the matted dark hair and doing his best to smile.

House sighed. "Movie of the Week," he mumbled weakly.

Wilson nodded. "Yeah … what the hell just happened to us?"

House's snort of ironic laughter was harsh. And very telling. "I think we have our answer about whether or not we'd end up killing each other …"

xxxxxxxx

They never did have that beer. They never ate supper either.

They showered together in total silence, but Wilson had to hold House up. His leg was too weak and too painful to take his weight, and he knew instinctively that this time it was bad.

They went to bed au natural, touching each other in tender apology, each man still chastising himself for the hurts of the other. Gregg's leg was propped on two extra bed pillows and wrapped in the moist heating pad. As usual, he professed to be "fine", but James did not believe him for a minute.

"House?" James' fingers were playing in Gregg's messy hair, fondling his ears and pushing back the grey-streaked tangles gently.

"Hmmm? If you don't stop fooling around, I'm going to hose you down …"

"Sorry." But Wilson continued to play. "I'm putting the house on the market."

"What? When did you decide this?"

"While we were in the shower. That place has way too many bad memories. I spent three crappy marriages there … and I 'enabled' my kid brother right into a charge of larceny."

"That's bullshit, and you know it. Roger 'enabled' himself into everything he got! Are you sure about selling the house? Shouldn't you take some time to think about it?"

Wilson snorted softly. "I thought about getting rid of it after my first marriage, and after my second, and again after Julie moved out. Now Roger is gone too. There's just not anything left for me there. I need to put it behind me. Move closer to town and find my own apartment, maybe."

"You have _this_ apartment … if you want it. You should know that." Gregg looked across at James with softening eyes. What was Wilson trying to say?

"I know. I do … but like you said awhile ago … we could end up killing each other.

If I would ever be the one to cause you more pain, I couldn't stand it. There are dark places inside me, House. And I think the smoke is already on the wind …"

xxxxxxx

Sleep proved to be impossible.

Beneath Wilson's caring hands, Gregory House's body shook like a leaf with pain. This time no medication could contain it; no expressions of loving concern could soothe it away. Greg found it impossible to lie still, and his breathing grew halting and gasping.

At last, Wilson realized it was time to take charge. He got out of bed and pulled on jeans and a shirt. He gathered wallet and car keys and shoved them into his pockets.

By the time he returned to Gregg's side, his friend was rapidly approaching a point where he was unable to cope with anything around him. Wilson manhandled him gently into sweats and slippers, guided him from the bed, handed him his cane and somehow got him onto his feet.

Wilson kept a strong arm tightly around House's middle, maneuvering him into the elevator and down to the Pacifica.

The ride to the hospital was silent and guarded. Gregg did not try to speak. He had no strength left, only the pained, deep-set blue eyes glazed with misery and despair. Wilson drove the short distance like a bat out of hell, and pulled up at the emergency entrance.

One look at the leg by attendings on duty, and every question Wilson had been asking himself was answered. He'd been worried about causing more pain. Now he knew.

That morning, 2:00 a.m., Gregory House was admitted …

xxxxxxxxxxx

11


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32 "Irony"

There are times when even "The Philosopher Jagger" gets it wrong! You not only don't get what you want, but you don't get what you need.

_Huh?_

_This is one of the ironies of life._

_The hell you say!_

Sometimes when an entity is damaged beyond repair, the only recourse is to walk away before _another_ entity becomes damaged beyond repair.

_IRONY!_

_Oh. Right …(whatever _that_ means!)_

If the one who is not yet damaged beyond repair has an innate compulsion to remain and make some useless effort at reparation anyway, then probably the originator of such attempts at reparation will become damaged also.

_Huh?_

_You're not listening!_

At this point there are _two_ entities left damaged in the wake of useless effort, and both are destined to languish in disrepair, one with the other. Both are then useless. And _way_ beyond repair!

_Oh, bullshit!_

_Smoke on the wind, you see. Ironic!_

_Never heard such total crap in all my life …you are totally immersed in your own erudition!_

_NOT!_

xxxxxxx

Wilson:

The house on Ridge Road is sold.

The people who bought it have two kids and a dog and a cat. They have two cars and a motorboat. And a Mother-in-law-from-hell! The place will probably soon be up for sale again.

Irony in Paradise!

That, however, is no longer my concern.

House is!

House is on crutches and in pain.

xxxxxxx

He had to undergo surgery again. His pain had been so bad that it couldn't be contained for long except with powerful injections of morphine.

The incident between the two of us in his living room was the straw that broke the camel's back. When his knee hit the floor, the damage was incalculable. The transverse tear in his right medial meniscus ruptured. Deep fractures, and bone splinters in his LCL. His knee was nearly the size of a football. He could not wear a shoe. Even a slipper was too heavy. He could no longer touch his foot to the floor, and the missing muscle in his upper leg made it impossible for him to hold it _off _the floor.

For a time he was again wheelchair-bound, angry and silent and unreachable. Norm Lyons viewed the ultra-sound that Monday night, and suggested the "German solution."

I went along in the private jet that flew him to Wiesbaden. House was placed in a risky five-day coma in a German hospital where such unusual procedures were quite commonplace. They pumped him full of ketamine, an experimental drug still illegal in the states.

The surgical team opened his knee, examined the torn ligaments, plucked out multiple bone fragments and made the necessary repairs. Portions of his lateral medial ligaments are now an amalgamation of synthetics. He may walk again someday. Or not.

For five long days, we waited.

When Gregory House came out of the coma, his pain was greatly reduced, other than residual discomfort from the most recent injury. They flew us home again and granted him a three-month leave of absence until the long-range prognosis could be determined.

Gregg was nearly pain-free for twenty-six days. He was beginning to try to walk again, to live again!

Then it came back. Not as bad as before, but it incapacitated him, and it was as though he'd gone back in time to the early post-infarction days. Now he had another surgical scar to contend with and another bellyful of bitterness, except that this time he had no one to blame but himself. And me. Which he did.

When he went for checkups in Orthopedics, Norm Lyons never said: "I told you so!" But the implications were plain. What Norm did say was: "I want you on crutches every single day until I say otherwise!" Gregg knew he had no choice. I remember very well the look on his face and the bleakness in his eyes.

That was when I asked for and was granted a three-month leave of my own, and by that time everyone at the hospital knew of our status with each other. I never left House's side, and again I put up with his bitching, whining and sullen silences. Rather than cooperation, Gregg gave me nothing but grief, and we fought long and often.

Sometimes when the yelling got out of hand, I would walk out and close the door between him and me. Clear the air. But I always went back. Gregg could not be left alone too long. We would apologize to one another and smooth things over, but the peace never lasted.

Stan Ralls took over the Oncology Department, and though he reported back to me periodically, he was definitely in charge. The department chugged along as usual. Stan was a little more boisterous than I ever was, but the patients respected him. He was kind, he was funnier than me, and he was certainly competent and more than generous.

Mark Fetterolf moved over to Diagnostics. He was a very different personality from Gregory House. Mark did not have the genius of his predecessor, but he did give a damn, and he kept an unbiased ear open to the thoughts of House's three fellows. (He never called them "Ducklings").

Within a few weeks, a blanket of respectful cooperation descended over the two-room suite, and the place was no longer interesting. The ball and the yo-yo and the Game Boy and the stereo system disappeared, and Dr. Cuddy never had to stop by and check up on their cases anymore. After a few weeks, Cameron, Foreman and Chase were bored to tears and actively wished for the reign of chaos to return to the fold.

Mark Fetterolf could not figure out what he'd done wrong.

Nothing, actually … he just was not House!

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I moved everything I owned out of the place on Ridge Road … sold most of it … then rented and moved into an apartment of my own a few blocks from House's condo. My clothing is there, a few sticks of furniture, and some personal items. But my heart remains at the elegant dump on East Side Drive.

At night I would help Gregg House into bed, and often as not, crawl in beside him and hold him. Put up a human barricade against the pain. Gregg was on a variety of medications now, over and above the Vicodin. Sometimes he could not eat, and once in awhile he suffered from headaches and nausea. I fully believed I was there to shore him up and lend support whenever and wherever I was needed. He had nothing left to give, and it showed.

Gregg was pale and gaunt, weak and, of course, in pain. It was taking a lot out of him. Grey streaks in his hair were getting wider every day, and he had aged ten years in just a matter of months.

He still could not tolerate a shoe on the right foot, and his leg was beginning to go into contracture. He made no effort to walk without the crutches, and it broke my heart.

xxxxxxxx

I had been to the grocery store that day. Every two weeks I stocked House's pantry with all his favorite foods. I was coming down the hallway from the underground garage pulling a loaded complex-owned utility cart filled with bags of groceries.

I heard the piano before I got to the front door. I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard Gregg play. (The night he played _Wunderbar _and made it sound like _Music Box Dancer, _I think.) Anyway, I could feel my eyes beginning to fill up, and I paused a minute to get myself back under control.

I stopped outside the door to listen. _Smoke Gets in Your Eyes._ Sweet, sad old song. Was Gregg playing from the heart? I remembered some of the lyrics, but not all:

"Now laughing friends deride

Tears I cannot hide

Oh, so I smile and say

When a lovely flame dies

Smoke gets in your eyes"

Smoke on the wind, maybe …

I turned the key in the lock and walked in to see my dearest friend in old blue jeans, a clean tee shirt and seated on the piano bench with both hands on the keyboard. He was no less pale, no less gaunt, no less pained, but the bitterness and anger had receded behind a calmer exterior.

"House?" I pulled the wagon full of groceries into the room behind me and let the door fall shut. "Are you all right?"

"I've often been better …" His eyes were mocking, deep blue and penetrating.

"Your leg?"

"Still not working … obviously …" He indicated the crutches propped against the bench beside him. "I'm so damn sick of being useless."

"You're not …"

"Wilson … _pleas_e"

"What's going on?"

"Cuddy called. She has a case."

"You're weak. You can barely move. How can you work?"

"I'll find a way. It's only a consult, Wilson."

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I took him to PPTH the next day. We went directly to Cuddy's office on the ground floor rather than venturing to our respective offices on the third. Both our departments were in other hands now, and to intrude before our leaves of absence were up, would have been a breach of ethics.

I held the door for him … hurrying in ahead of him with the intention of warning Dr. Cuddy of his haggard look. She had not seen him in awhile, and I meant to avoid any expression of shock on her part.

I needn't have worried. She'd seen us coming and had time to take in his gauntness, his frailty, his pain, and the overwhelming "crippledness" of his crutches, his bent leg and his lack of a shoe. She was behind her desk, using it as a shield between herself and the man she had so often sparred with, but also regarded with respect and admiration. Her professional demeanor was tightly in place, and I could have hugged her for that. Professionalism be damned!

I saw the moist gleam in Lisa's eyes when she first saw him; turning into an old man before his time and crippled by life and by circumstances. But then she steeled herself and smiled. She gave him the administrator's look, and not an ounce of pity showed through. She offered Gregg a chair and he took it in silence.

That in itself was a revelation. He did not greet her with open arms and she did not expect it. I seated myself in the chair at his left elbow, reached over to take his crutches and placed them on the floor by his side while he settled his useless leg into the most comfortable position possible.

Cuddy, to her undying credit, played her part extremely well. If Gregg saw any chinks in her armor, he granted her the courtesy of ignoring them. "Dr. House … I'm very glad you're here … you too, Dr. Wilson." She cocked her head in that endearing way she has, and smiled widely at both of us before centering her attention back on Gregg. She eyed him with the old challenge to her expression that she'd enjoyed with him for so many years.

"You look like you could use some roast beef and mashed potatoes, Doctor! Otherwise, you've improved a lot from the last time I saw you." (The last time was just before the jet took off for Germany.)

He looked up slowly and glared for a moment, perhaps searching for flaws in the porcelain. Evidently he found none. "That's not saying much, is it?"

"Well then, take me for what I mean, not what I say!" She shot back. "I called you because I need your expert medical opinion … and not to initiate a 'can-you-top-this' contest! We have a puzzle; a weird set of symptoms and a young woman in trouble … and Dr. Fetterolf and his team can't seem to get a handle on it. Are you interested or not?"

House bristled for a moment at the "Dr. Fetterolf and _his_ team" comment, but I decided she'd done it on purpose. His nod was familiar, that quick downward thrust of his chin that said whatever the bet, he was _in!_

Cuddy came around her desk toward him with a heavily notated case file in her hand. She walked purposefully to his side as though the painful past months hadn't gone down, and this type of consult was something they still did every day.

It was time for me to leave. I got up from the chair and turned toward the door. "House, I'll be around if you need me. When you get tired and want to go home, page me. I'm going to go say 'hi' to the kids and wander around awhile. Okay?"

Gregg turned his eyes toward me vaguely for a moment, as though he'd already forgotten I was there, which, I suppose was the most natural thing in the world. He was back in his own element and ready to re-immerse himself in the profession he loved. In this world, I was only part of the fringe, and I could accept that. He barely nodded an absent-minded acknowledgment in my direction.

Cuddy looked at me briefly over the top of Gregg's head as she settled herself into the chair I'd just vacated and turned to him with the medical file falling open across his lap.

Cuddy winked at me with twinkling eyes, and I paused the split second it took to wink back.

When I walked out her door and stepped into the lobby, I was very glad I'd called and beseeched her to dig up the most difficult current case in the hospital's open files.

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I walked past Gregg's office, checking first to see whether Mark was there. (I did not want him to think I was spying.) He wasn't. From what I could tell with such a brief glimpse, it looked as though Allison Cameron was the only one in the DD room. There were two or three medical volumes spread open across the table. Her nose was deep into one of them, glasses down on the tip of her nose, her fingers twiddling with a pencil.

I turned at the end of the corridor and walked back. Two or three people smiled and waved at me as I went past, so I figured I hadn't been forgotten … yet. I was still grinning like a kid in a candy store when I pushed open the door and stuck my head inside. "Hey! Cameron!"

She looked up, startled, as though she couldn't believe her ears. The next thing I knew, she was squealing, jumping up and almost barreling me over with her arms wrapped around my neck. The sensation was most pleasant, I must say. She smelled like honeysuckle and roses, very unlike someone else we won't mention, who smells of stale cigars, Scotch and Old Spice.

I was half embarrassed, but I returned the hug enthusiastically anyway. "This is not very professional, you know, young lady!"

She giggled delightfully. "I'm so glad to see you! How are you?"

She didn't say: _"How is House?" _ But the question hung in the air between us like a Meaty Bone dangled in front of a hungry puppy. I told her I was "fine" … that long-time standard answer for everything.

Foreman and Chase walked up as we stood there, and although we exchanged handshakes rather than hugs, the greetings were just as enthusiastic.

It was Eric who finally got around to asking the question. "How is he?" No one had to ask whom he meant.

"He hurts." My non-committal answer could have been taken in a variety of ways.

Each of the younger ones translated in his or her mind to suit their individual concepts, and the silence stretched out for some moments.

"He's here," I said, finally. "Actually, he's down with Dr. Cuddy … consulting with her on a case. He knows I was going to come up to say hello." I left the rest dangle. Let them grapple with their own scenarios!

"Will he come up for a little while? Would he talk to us if we went down?" Chase's boyish enthusiasm finally asked the questions they all wanted the answers to. "Doctor Fetterolf is a gem, and we all get along with him very well. But he does not _yell_ at us!"

There it was, out in the open, without disrespect for the other doctor, or a moment's complaint. Chase had nailed it, and the other two faces opened in complete agreement.

"He doesn't ever get _silly_ with us … he doesn't get angry … he never threatens to take the tops of our heads off if we don't figure out the right diagnosis. Nobody calls us a 'wombat' or a 'little girl' or a 'car thief'. I guess we don't feel … loved … anymore …"

"Walk with me," I said. "If you have nothing pressing at the moment, just walk with me. We can go to the cafeteria for an early lunch, or just a cup of coffee. We can talk, and I'll tell you everything I know about House's recovery … at least everything I can tell you without invading his privacy."

So I told them everything I could possibly tell them about his most recent injury and the resulting deterioration and reparation surgery. I admitted that if it hadn't been for the old infarction problems and the missing muscle, his latest surgery might have gone much better. I told them about the continuous infusion of the ketamine while he lay in an induced coma for five days, and about watching him awaken for the first time in years without pain.

And then its return …

I felt, for a time, like the grim reaper with only bad news to impart. Allison sat with tears running down her face, the remainder of her meal pushed aside and forgotten. The dark and somber faces of both young men made me understand that they had taken the news hard as well. But they had asked, and now they knew.

I changed the subject then, but the news was still not great. I told them of Gregg's weight loss, his encroaching frailty, the contracture in his crippled leg, his (possibly permanent) transition to the use of crutches, and the fact that he had aged so noticeably over the past few months.

Then I told them the good stuff. He had been eager to consult on this medical case with Cuddy. He'd already agreed to work out of her office so he would have only a minimum of walking. He would be given a recliner chair that would accommodate his leg as comfortably as possible. He would also have unlimited access to every treatment room, every imaging service, every laboratory and lab researcher the hospital had to offer, and when he became fatigued, I would take him home.

I told them he'd gone back to playing the piano. He'd asked me to order in some Chinese food, and stop at a distributor to pick up a case of beer.

And I told them he had called me 'an asshole' two days in a row.

However, I decided I would not let them see him or try to talk to him. Not yet. He was still not ready for their scrutiny. They would have to be content with standing at the upstairs window to watch unobtrusively as he hobbled out to my car when I drove him slowly home.

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That was two months ago.

It is now early October, and the leaves are suddenly beginning to change again. There is a nip in the air in the mornings when I get ready to leave and pick up Gregg for work, and I know it won't be long until winter rears its miserable head with three months or more of guessing games …

I don't stay with House every single night anymore. Sometimes he reminds me of a teenager who is eager to leave the comfortable fold of Mom and Dad's place to venture out on his own. Usually I'm okay with that, although I nag him constantly to keep his cell phone handy so he can call me right away if something happens. Usually I get the eye roll and the scrunched face that says something indulgently sarcastic like "Yes, Mommy." But then he's been doing that kind of stuff with me for years.

I still cook a lot of his meals, because that close-quarters kitchen of his and a pair of crutches in the hands of someone so tall, just don't mix. He does still make a mean batch of popcorn though, so it usually evens out okay.

We sit around in the evenings and watch TV together and eat junk food. Or he will play the piano soft and low and I sit on the bench beside him and lean my head on his shoulder. He manages to sneak a few bars of _Wunderbar _into whatever he's playing and then look over at me to see if I've caught it. I always do!

The love we have for each other has not diminished. It is just not as urgent, and with the condition of his leg, I am frightened to death of hurting him.

He doesn't like to drive much anymore. The suicide machine sets downstairs in his utility room with a tarp over it. I don't think he's even started it up to run the engine for a couple of months.

The big Envoy hasn't fared much better, although he still goes for drives now and then on weekends. Sometimes I'm invited along … sometimes not. I know he likes to cruise the back roads, open all the windows and let the wind tousle his hair … as if it needs more "tousle" than it already has. He is "hair-in-a-blender" challenged!

We are both back to work now, our leaves of absence long over. It is good to be back in harness again, and I feel much more at ease with my caseload in relation to the additional time I spend near House in and around his office. He lets me help him out a little more nowadays, because he no longer has a free hand to carry his stuff around and walk at the same time.

He's back to trading insults with the ducklings, and ordering them around as though they are his own personal indentured servants. I know they are very happy to have him back, snark and all, and I have not heard a word of complaint from any of them.

The kids are used to his crutches now, and his difficulty in getting around. Cameron still steals pitying looks his way when she thinks he's not looking. But he knows. I know he knows because he's mentioned it to me from time to time. He just chooses to ignore it. Some things are better left unsaid.

He refuses to let any of them wait on him or pander to him, and from time to time I have heard him voice his opinions all the way across two rooms and into my office. I just sit and smile to myself. As long as he can articulate his displeasure and roar like Mufasa at the same time, he is happy and doing what he loves. God bless him!

Tom calls me from time to time about Roger and Jules. They are still working off their repayment for all the money they stole, and surprisingly they are settling down and taking life seriously, rather than searching for more devious ways to get their asses into trouble.

Roger's legs are still weak, and his movements painful, but he exercises daily … and he is improving slowly. Jules has proved to be the intelligent one of the pair, the dependable one. Somehow he keeps Roger's restless nature in check and both of them go to their jobs each day and profess to enjoy the work.

Tom has the Dodge Shadow. It's up on blocks in his carport and will stay there until both boys finish off their probation and earn the privilege of driving it again. Until then, they go where they want to go on foot … even Roger, for whom this part of the punishment seems a little severe. His problem. He asked for it. Fortunately the 911 Emergency headquarters is only a block away from Tom and Suzanne's, and they refuse to ferry him back and forth.

Jules always hitches an early morning ride on one of the heavy-duty work trucks, and returns home after work the same way. The roar of a New Jersey Highway Department dump truck in a quiet residential neighborhood has become a fact of life, Tom says. The neighbors aren't nuts about it, but what can they do?

So … I have stopped worrying about my little brother. He is in good hands. I don't know whether Mom and Dad have accepted Jules or not. Tom doesn't offer and I don't ask. If they are staying away because of the life choices of their youngest son, what the hell will they do if they find out about House and me? I think about it sometimes, but I certainly don't lose any sleep over it. It's their loss.

One more thing I need to add here, while I sit in my office with my mind in the clouds …

Two weeks ago, Billy Travis and Nancy Franklin were married. It was a beautiful ceremony, conducted in their flower-bedecked back yard by a wonderful minister with a voice like James Earl Jones.

There was also a tall, skinny piano player who played the Wedding March as though it were an old time spiritual. Magnificent! Nancy practically danced down the grassy "aisle". The piano player continued playing with a long list of old standards that dared anyone not to tap their toes and hum along.

Nancy and Billy's first dance as husband and wife was to the lilting strains of the beautiful _Wunderbar_.

With tears threatening, I stood motionless at the outskirts of the crowd and watched them … and watched that talented piano player, while he played right through his pain and his fatigue, for hours on end … for two people he admired and respected.

They didn't know at the time, how he really felt about the two of them, but they would soon find out. The piano player's gift to the couple was just a plain brown envelope with a folded piece of paper inside it. When Nancy opened it later, it contained a car title and two car keys taped to a hunk of cardboard.

The bright red classic Corvette was all theirs.

Lucky them!

Gregg was so sore that night, and so tired that he moaned quietly in my arms. I held him and rocked him, and later, positioned his leg across my lap and caressed its thin contours gently until he finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

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And now, here I sit … in my office … in the dark. It's probably after midnight. I finished my charting an hour ago, and it's way past time to go home. But still I linger, thinking thoughts filled with conflicting emotions.

Lisa Cuddy took House back to his place eight hours ago when I knew I would be staying late and called her to do me the favor. Of course she said yes. I know they had a goofy mouth battle on the way home, because Lisa called me later and told me all about it gleefully.

She is happy to see him back and doing his job with relish. She hates to see him so crippled and so frail … but House is still House. He has gained back a little of the weight he'd lost, and looks better physically. The more things change though, the more they remain the same.

I was still smiling to myself when Cuddy and I rang off.

I love him, I admire him, and I respect him. Completely. That will never change.

I know he returns the compliment too, as much as he is capable of such alien emotions. But he has fears and reservations, and he does not wish to hurt me beyond all repair, the same way things happened a long time ago with Stacy.

I can accept that. We are together and we are not.

Sometimes I look into his beautiful eyes and see a wistfulness there that he will not talk about, and which I cannot fathom. Those are the times I feel him drifting away from me, and I am saddened, but not surprised.

Once I had confessed to him that sometimes I felt restless … like smoke in the wind.

Now … I wonder if some portion of the smoke is his also.

In the moment … but not …

… and once in awhile I hear _Wunderbar_ playing lightly inside my head.

I feel a little like Daniel Jackson in an old episode of S_targate I, _when he walked through a time portal into another dimension … and the Jack O'Neill he encountered there was a shade off center from the one he'd known and served with for so many years.

My Gregory House is like that too sometimes … just a shade off center … and I am at a loss to explain it. Actually, I think, so is he.

Sometimes "The Philosopher Jagger" is totally off base!

The one thing you want the most and_ need_ the most in your life … turns out to be the one thing you cannot have.

_Ironic, isn't it?_

The End

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